MEN OF THE SEA … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

 

The waves were huge, and he was bronzed and dead now in the water.

The breeze had dropped; likewise, his sail and now he knew he oughta

get right quick on the blower and an SOS call send

before the open spaces claimed a prize from Neptune’s friend.

 

The yacht he held was priceless – master of its fate was he

and be damned if he would lose it to the vagaries of sea

and storm that was rampaging with a wild tempestuous throat,

he'd old dreams still to follow and his fist in anger smote

on the wheel as she cavorted, riding high then plunging deep.

Ginger Crust could be flirtatious but ‘twas not the time to keep

quiet about their dire predicament, for help he must now call

before the Mermen claimed him, a thought that did not enthral.

 

He’d rigged lifelines and followed every safety rule by rote

he knew each plank upon her hull – she was more than a boat,

she was the labour of his love – five years of toil and strain

and like a flower’s rare perfume impossible to tame.

 

And then as if the Gods took pity on this sailor-man

a patch of blue appeared above, and sun, though pale and wan.

Enough blue sky to make a Dutchman a new pair of breeches

a sure sign that the seas would calm and stop beating the beaches.

And in his head the giggles bubbled – joyful was his mirth

he heard the wild music of the country of his birth

intermingled with pathos, though he was exceeding glad

that Ginger Crust had bought them through, ‘twas his last link with Dad.