by Greg Zell
A poem for the sailor
|A drip from a rogue wave|
that blew along the breeze
found the tip of an old face
and awoke the sailor's dream.
The siren signalled water breach!
The boat it creaked and croaked.
The man he made it to his feet
and calmly lit a smoke.
Ran hard and stowed wet
he squinted eyes to sea.
Thankful he'd have no regret
to end the mis-ery.
To the east? A shining sun.
To the west? All rain and thunder.
Stay or leave? A choice of one.
Life or death? No need to wonder.
It was time, and he was sure
to labor through the final shift.
The name that dangled from his lure?
'The Ghost of Sandy Drift'.
A diamond tear formed in his eye
and cut across his cheek.
A pack of birds they filled the sky
and preyed upon the leak.
The sailor screamed, "Sails up, heave-ho!"
"Which way, cap?!" from the crew below.
"You should already know!"
(he even pointed for show)
..."It's west that we go!!!"