UNPAINTED
They would have thee quiescent;
A plaything
to play at mariners.
A limpid pond,
where sporting hats hold import
far beyond dead reckoning.
They would have a Dufy;
a flash of foam as fixed as smiles;
a dash of buoyhood
with a touch of magenta.
Brandished burgees for the winner;
a solemn line cheesed for the rest;
but, a liquid clubhouse heals,
and there is always next time.
Brisk is good;
but brawling..?
Never.
The Sea.
Down she comes from the north;
with dead men's bones
still turning.
White walled against the blackness
of evil.
Calling for names:
Grey marching hordes of wailing;
unrelenting, unforgiving and unpainted.
Abyss deep with a beckoning vortex.
Annapurna high with cragged peaks
to vie with eagle's flight.
No buoys, no jaunty caps, no burgees.
Just fear, and men who have seen thee
not quiescent.
Godless men who have preyed on thee,
and prayed when at thy mercy.
Men:
Dufyless men, with impassioned hearts
and heartless passion.
Seamen.
Reg Kear (c) 1995
