The silent halo of a yawning sun
dies in muddy, murky afternoon;
as orange embers paint the sea.
a moaning surge that lick the shore
can bear the burden of their boat away.
See on the foamy crest they ride
to meet a wreck upon the haggard reef.
Their backs are wet with brine and sweat,
to save the cargo for our wealth
with adze and spear they reach the wreck
and put the coxswain to his rest.
In smell of peat and food we cook
and mourn with ale at midnight feast.
Our starving children will survive,
the price was paid with seamen’s blood.
February 10, 2015