Dec04

Slow, sad sails, empty of all their power,Wagging through the trailing mists of morning.Quiet decks, awash with fluttering foam,Robbed of regimented hands batteningQuarter hatches, holes and starlit skylights.Each cabin lost of all souls except phantomsThat shift in time like the absent Bosun’s call.No hurried feet clambering the riggingFor a glimpse of the dawn’s early glimmerRiding…