Like hail they fell,
in numbers uncountable,
leaving no one left to wail but me,
Godless upon an iron sea.
After the storm I was cut adrift,
me a mid-shipman,
ten days out to sea,
and never a sight of land for me,
nor woman’s touch,
but her dark eyes
swam before me all the way
to the whirlpool at the end of days
where under a glowering sky,
still beardless,
I died the death of gulls.
This sea-tale I recount,
by way of settlement
to the God that has deserted me
this seventeenth day of May,
Seventeen hundred and fifty three.
Now the Devil take me.
2. The Last Island
The storm levelled the house
and I raised sail;
made for the last island of all.
Seven days have now passed,
my boat lies broken on the beach
and I lay dying of love.
In my own blood I write this scrawl
and face my God alone:
my maker,
and my unmaker,
Lord of the Last Island.
3. The Voyage Out
On the voyage out, we were becalmed
for seven days and nights,
one for each decade of an old soak’s life.
Untouched by either current or breeze,
by degrees, I grew mad
so that when the wind did whisper to me,
it was in sea dreams I could not read;
strange alphabet, strange tongue,
not known to me, or anyone,
hieroglyphs on the pavements of a seaside town,
out of season all year round.
And there I was delayed,
incanting, have remained,
casting back these stones into the sea,
words formed in extremity,
holding back the one thing I could read:
“Oh why hast Thou forsaken me?”
when conversation became difficult
I made for the shelter of the trees
looking back across the sun-bleached field
to where the party was in full swing
appreciating the amplitude of tall silences
that I could navigate more easily
from there I could see you slowly circling
coming to rest
before finally heading out
navigation
ascertaining a position
calculating the most favourable route
between one point and another
even when there is no point at all
navigation
just moving around
it takes skill
practice
finesse
when even gentle waters
can seem treacherous
safer amid trees
they don’t move around
at least don’t appear to
I whispered a quiet thank you
and plotted a course back
four glass coasters
bought at Lyme Regis
when the children were young
and life was easy
life was never easy
photographing them now in sunlight
they seem fabulous beyond compare
blue from another ocean
I never knew existed
where sea urchins devour whales
amid bubbles of aquamarine
and half-formed monsters
guard a pirate treasure hardly seen
at the time
joy passes too quickly for us to grasp
life is a bauble
a theft
don’t expect miracles
when the miracle has already passed