Mooring

It’s not when
His shoulders bear
Down against
The white fitful Sea,
Bellicose Sea,
Ill tempered
Breathless
Barren expanse

His hands chance,
Attempt to moor
The lines
That rise and fall,
Chaffed hands
Beautiful hands
In a sudden
Briny squall,

The keel rolls,
With each trough
The keel cracks
Wood in steel
Strains to dive
Over, cold and over
The fathoms boil
With death and mirth,

‘Keep your berth
Old man, from
The wide, bedeviled
Base. Stow away
Nothing for the ‘morrow!
Nor for friend.
Your blood
Is in the venery,
Not a simple
quiet plot
Thickly gauged
By complacency.’

Up, sails to full
Almost to rend,
Muscles ache
Over the wake,
His rigging crests
Crow’s nest
Agape, anew!
Up, behold in the blue,
Hallowed blue,
Silent blue,
A child, absolute
Among men.

It’s not when
His shoulders bear
Down against
The white fitful Sea,
Bellicose Sea,
Near impenetrable
White little square,

And it’s not how
He does nor where
Or When, but simply
That he does and does
Again.