THE END OF SUMMER            

The wind is turning cold,
Summer vague and foolish
Failing beam brings
deceitful warmth
to those who stay on deck.      

The current strains at
squatting anchors
strands of ****
hang bile like
      from heaving ropes

Fishermen on the stone seawall,
thin nylon lines
               tugged taught
by the swinging tide.

Guided by the ghosts
of reckless sailors
hoping for the comforting rocks
the boats point out to sea.

The crew at last
panicked awake
cast off this daylight
Still numbed by the poisonous night.

Another journey
Oil and brine in their lungs....
No happy thing
this waiting


UNDER THE MOUNTAIN'S HEAD

I have nothing to say.

From this deck the world is flat
Behind us the mountains
a city lost in ash,
skeletons curled in sleep.

In the market place foreigners barter
Behind the tents and stalls
dressed in new colours
young lovers once caressed

Listen now.

Life is round,
a disc, no
a spinning burnished marble

Our only force is fear.

The sea is oil calm at last
the foaming hish
on our bow
disturbs and rocks the passing islands

Night drops,
and we are forever
longing
for the shore’s healing power

Hush.

The deadened thud
of blackened engines
Curling smoke in the dawn,
a sweating form
   in the engine room

UP ON DECK

The Captain watches his TV

Up on deck we listen
to the excited clap
the sing along.

The lads turn and watch
the disappearing lights,
remembering the visit
to the church;
the choir's low hum ,
the bag of grapes,
the cigarette shared
on marble steps

Careful study of distorted map
careless arm draped across a shoulder
The hum and sway of hammocked sleep

Dreaming of Puck’s promise

Wondrous navigation
a slowing earth,
then finally release