A boat forever in port, a captain that never had sailed. It was a weaver of tales and stories, forgetful in his old age.
Truth be told, he’d never gone out to sea, barely swam a day in his life, but he lived upon the water in a boat beached and damaged before he ever set foot upon it.
He cast his lines to catch the fish, the bountiful water provided well. The folk didn’t mind his woven stories, all but the children knew they were lies.
The children were safe on the boat that couldn’t sail, and the gardens aboard provided all. At least the old man thought they did, having no knowledge of sowing or reaping. In payment of watching their children, parents left vegetables laying in the pots.
Perhaps he was lucid enough to know the truth. But sometimes the dream gives hope to tear filled eyes.
A prompt response.