Saturday, November 7, 2015

SheWolf - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
there glides a monster so salty
as to find herself adrift
on waters south of islands few
out in a wet abyss

she sees herself so tall of mast
and creaking in her ways
ropes held taut all through a gale
rudder locked firm with firm hands staid

men of a certain twist
hard worn in sailor's lot
these cut throat demons
on land not sane
but here with duty locked

she falls beneath the upper class
yet, high above some tramps
here in an open ocean's winds
sets yards of sail on masts

masts so tall as to embed
themselves in low clouds down
near to deck of uncertainty
meant to earn a crown

where bound this lady of the wind
where from this crew sincere
about their duties ever keen
under captain long of beard

what lies beneath her decks
in holds so dark and damp
why can we not see her cargo
on a ship's good manifest

why can we not ask of men
where goes this wooden ship
why, “sir if I told you that
I'd have to slit your gullet”

so, on we sail toward westerly
winds of time gone by
so some, in future, can surmise
this ship's eventual prize

No comments:

Post a Comment