She was definitely no ******,
With her black hull and green antifouling,
She was a **** in heels and stockings,
Like she had been half dipped in ink,
Even with all that heartache I loved her.
Out of the water impulsively she needed to be touched,
A rubbing hand caressing her curves,
A worn hand placed on her bow,
With a sigh of exasperation,
Was an immediate kiss to a universe of promise.
Sails, rope, the smell of hemp,
Seducing her with sweet sailor talk,
The magical language of blocks, tackle, sheets and monkey’s fists,
She had beautiful curves and definitely a lovely ***,
Trying to keep this wild thing broke my heart.
On a moonless night,
With stars reflected in the mirror of a calm sea.
We are together suspended in space, almost weightless,
Slipping her from her moorings,
We glide past the Metal Man light,
With his white bony finger pointing to deep water.
Tack to starboard while she picks up the breeze past Dead Man’s point.
Pull on the sheet and trim her for speed,
She hasn’t a straight line.
The curve of her naked hull exposed as she lists to starboard
The soft white billow of the Jib as the sail fills
A breast revealed for caressing.
Bringing her around to port,
Just enough to keep the Blackrock lighthouse abeam,
As the light winks trying to attract her attention.
Ease the sheet, wrinkles on the Main,
Squinting eyes looking up, letting her head settle gently on a bearing for the pier.
I feel her tremble through the tiller,
The sternpost radiates her joy,
She is laughing, waves lapping the sides,
As she cuts through the water,
The freshness of the odd blown back spray.
Giddy in anticipation of the journey, the excitement, the arrival,
Our unique voyage together.
Astern the vague outline of the Ox Mountains,
A glimmer of heaven as the summer sky lightens,
The outline of Maeve’s cairn
On Knocknarea , the hill of Kings
The magic shadows of Sí playing on the beach,
I swear hear their fairy shouts
And the laughter of the stolen children.
With the tingling freedom,
I kiss the glowing dew laid compass
Feeling the moisture on my lips.
We are heading west,
West is the Atlantic!
West is the flying fish free in the air between swells!
West is the Sargasso Sea,!
West the magic sea sparkle luminescence!
And West is the myth of youth.
Before the dark cold winter clock of morning calls
Alone,
Wrapped in the bed sheets,
My hand flung across the pillow,
Empty,
Wake to the mundane,
When did I lose it all?