A Fine Thing

To slide, scramble, tumble
down through those trees
to race over the grassy sandy earth
to the shore where
that small solitary boat
(hidden) is beached
to climb aboard
to raise the sail
or start the motor
or row (if that’s what it takes)
across that stretch of sea
to where an accomplice a friend
awaits balaclava’d in a car
with the engine running
ready to whisk you away
to (anywhere but here) elsewhere…

That would be a fine thing.
Wouldn’t it?