Posted by Admin on 31 March 2008, 12:00 am
Acres of Terylene, flapping and filling,
west of the mark-boat, awaiting the gun:
listing acutely, manoeuvring and milling,
timing precisely that last leeward run.
Sheets free the head-sails – they flutter and billow,
close to the shore where the ebb loses force:
wear away, Skipper! – there’s rock for a pillow,
sleek on the seabed, and dead in your course.
Water, more water! – he’s trying to turn her:
Neptune have mercy – that’s cut it too fine!
One-seven-one’s aground off the Grantham,
stuck while competitors speed for the line.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council