What can I do?

Six weeks, they said.
Lie still. Let it mend.

So I lay still,
on a boat that doesn't go anywhere,
and went everywhere anyway.

The books I'd given up on
let me back in.
The wool I'd given up on
started to look like a jumper.

I bought some paints
and made a mess,
then a slightly better mess
(Claude was honest about both),
then a leaf.

Through the porthole: Essex.
Lush trees, green fields, ducks.
Memories of Harris, stroke by stroke.

The boat stays put.
I don't.