flights of fancy

across the sea, a footpath paved in gold
leads flights of fancy towards the setting sun
imagination, if not well-controlled
can slip its leash and take off at a run
might not a ship--despite what's oft observed--
keep straight its course, defying gravity
Cartesian grid instead of one that's curved
could ply the whale-road towards infinity
but then the sun's below horizon's mark
and even as the sky sheds its last gleam
the seeming pavement fades into the dark
just as the upper hemisphere's stars teem
the moment's past, the notion seems insane
and just these cryptic verses here remain