A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You anchor me.
Tempest tossed,
deep blue-grey thunderheads,
gale force winds,
ripping at the sails,
foam crashing over the bow,
with violence
and vehemence.
I’ve not weathered
a storm like this
in years.
Darkness closing in,
chill touch of the wind
reaching through my clothes
through my skin
to touch my bones
to touch my soul.
Drenched.
I would wish
for a safe harbour
but the journey there
may not be survivable,
and what use is a boat
who lives safely moored
and never ventures out?
The mast snaps,
cracks like a gunshot,
but the hull is
-mercifully-
still intact.
I have yet one hope
to weather this storm.
Batten down the hatches
and trust to an anchor.
I throw it out,
not fully sure if the water here is too deep
if the chain is long enough.
It drops through tumultuous waves,
thuds into sand on the ocean floor,
drags briefly through the mud,
and holds.
The chain becomes taut
as the storm rages on,
intent on my destruction.
The links creak
as the boat is moved by forces beyond all control.
But it holds.
And as I stand on the deck
buffeted by this raw force,
I feel the strain,
but also the hope.
Some friendships
are the safe harbour
if you can reach them.
Comfortable.
Somewhere you can rest
when the storm is outside.
Somewhere you can repair
when a storm is over.
Useful,
valid,
wonderful even,
in a passive way.
But the rusty trusty anchor
sits in the storm with you,
is able to hold
despite the current,
a tether of hope,
willing to be with you
in the cold and the wet and the wind,
a thread of love,
stronger than it appears,
golden.
You anchor me.