Ode to the Lost Brother

Or Slippin’ Away

The oldest by date
Nary a spate
Between the siblings, except
When discussing those adept
At the art of leisure
I’ll sail away, says he the oldest
When in reality they slip, and sip
Mostly
Southerly warm
A literal and littoral swarm
All mast
The message in the bottle reads
Back in a year
Or more
When will we hear? Oh, dear
Brother of mine
It’s a fine
Endeavour