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T'would be a foul night to be adrift,
Yet I find in me that yearning
As the wind whistles through my hair,
Here, near Market and the Emabarcadero.
I dream of those at sea, and long
To fight again the brawny battle
With the Ancient Man, the Sea.
On shore's rock I tread, “T'was a fair blow,”
And know once more the knotted
Stomach of starvation as the Reaper
To the small band hidden there
Little can I tell of a night so long ago;
When once before I walked on a night so cold.
Of the ice drawing near, or of those who froze,
Afraid to stay, too crazed to run.
I long for those on far flung missions
Whose hardships are as yet untold.
Yet little would I ask of them,
Except their names that they might be
Unforgotten as we perish in the wastes.
Of those whose broken hearts shed bitter tears
Which fall, uncounted snowflakes, round me.
Whose wailing and lametations are echoed
Those too are buried in my longing,
And help sharpen the knife I'll need
To cut these bonds that bind me.
Of those I read in daily paper
Having emerged unscathed from bleak, cold wilderness.
Yes, and of those who stayed, so stiff and cold.
All those I welcome as time old friends.
Having stood beside them through that wilderness
Brings a kinship known but too few.
Yes, t'would be a foul night to be adrift.
Yet adrift once more I soon must go,
In search again of fair, cold adventure.
And drift I will, as soon as I find the knife
To cut these bonds of age that bind me.
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| Chapter — Poetry |
| Back — Pouting Pretty Girl |