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Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away

One day I promise

By Colleen Millsteed Published 3 years ago 1 min read
15
Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away
Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

One day, oh yes one day, one day soon

Just how long will I keep saying this,

When will I honour this promise to me

Just when will I admit I have been remiss?

***

For years I’ve had all good intentions

To take a luxury international ocean cruise,

A dream, a wish, a hope to fulfil

Really what do I have but nothing to loose?

***

My excuse for year after year

Was that I was a single mother,

Who would look after my children

As I had no significant other?

***

Then suddenly my children are fully grown

Old enough to be left home alone,

Still I did nothing more than talk the talk

With no legitimate reason to postpone.

***

My boys are no longer just boys

But fully matured young men,

Still I seem to come up with excuses

However if not now, then when?

***

I’ve never been overseas at all

This was to be my one reward,

For the love and sacrifice I made

I deserve some time abroad.

***

I still fully intend to honour my promise

Although I’ll need to wait just a little longer,

For Covid to lose some of its’ fight

And the world to become a little stronger.

***

As soon as the international borders open

I’m going to sail away, sail away, sail away,

Time to play, relax and enjoy this world

And no excuses will be allowed to delay!

****************************************

Even Enya agrees I should sail away, sail away, sail away.

If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.

****

Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.

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Originally posted on Medium

inspirational
15

About the Creator

Colleen Millsteed

My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.

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