Whither now? No compass knows.
No waypoints fixed, no course to bear.
Cut adrift at high sea’s mercy,
Flotsam taken where waves will.

Surfacing sometimes, catching the current now,
Borrows direction, follows the tide,
A distant shore beckoning, calling him onwards,
The bottle is floating, its message inside.

Washed up on the sand, a child he sees it.
Smile beaming brightly, he clutches his prize:
“My castle’s got battlements, moats and a bridge,
And soon a glass tower, as tall as the skies!”

As the sun fires the sea and the surf hides the sand,
The battlements crumble; no bridges remain.
The current steals all with its fathomless hand:
The bottle is taken, adrift once again.