Writing of ships is hard work
on an empty stomach.
Luckily, I am contentedly full,
and lie, listening to the sound
of Banjos softly strumming in
harmony with the dark spray,
and breaking of waves across
Other, greener, sailors turn a
sickly shade on nights such as these,
and lie in their hammocks, or
wooden bunks, rolling with each
heave of water-borne restlessness,
and cursing the young lad who once
dreamed of leaving on the night winds
from exotic harbors, far from home.
But I am no such man.
Instead, the waves and rolling hull
bring to me stories of far gone men,
and deeds done on the deep that no
tongue can tell.
© 2011 Sam Whited
CC BY-NC-ND 4.0