LAID UP

Posted by Admin on 18 May 2006, 12:00 am

Does she never hear the oceans call,
and long for the deep blue flows,
as she lies in chocks near the hollyhocks
which the lupins juxtapose?

Does she never wish for tidal streams
where the herons came for food,
and the willowed scene was an artist’s dream,
the life both calm and good?

Does she never think of seas, cold, grey,
where the Roaring Forties drave,
of horizons lost as she slid and tossed,
and shuddered to each wave?

Does she not relive once more the thrill
of a landfall in South Seas,
with still lagoons and tropic moons,
and teeming foreign quays?

No more she’ll feel the rainbow spume
where coral islands start,
but meet each dawn on a well-trimmed lawn
until her timbers part.

Does her skipper in his wheelchair hear
the sounds of storms long past,
of the scupper’s surge and the eldritch dirge
of stays and sheets made fast?

Does he never yearn for one last trip
from which he’ll not come back
to a chair-bound life, to his country’s strife,
and a boring neighbour’s clack?

T. C. Hudson

Church

Village