At last, he sees the pattern spun in gold: 
The maritime, the nautical in how 
It is the trip, the journey makes us old; 
It is the search to find what's really now. 

How many hours rowing, tacking wind? 
How many flat seas scanned, how many ports? 
The plans he scuppered, burned up, tossed, or binned 
Are like so many other vain reports, 

That he has authored, thinking them the truth. 
But now, he's on a road, and wet brown earth 
Are everywhere he looks; the sun's lost youth 
Reminds him of how far he is from birth.

  He may know where he is at, or of, 
  But he knows this: all truth is really love.