06-16-2017, 08:25 PM
The wildest seas had risen up the night old Donny died.
Close running to the western gales and on an awkward tide,
the Gina Belle had tumbled on,
her stern was low, her going gone.
The tumult thrashed and spun her round,
in waves that broke on jagged ground
no more than half a league away.
Flayed bladderwrack flew in the spray, old Donny fought the wheel.
The grounding shook her, jarred her straight and pinned her by the keel;
Again, again, again she skewed
until her timbers cracked and flew
in shards that rained upon the deck,
or what was left, until she wrecked
just off the heartless, granite shore.
This way then that she lunged and lurched until the anchor caught.
The hawser ran then plucked and held, the surging pulled it taut…
The seventh wave pressed Gina down,
great pinnacles of rock rose round,
four fathoms down she should have stayed
and lain there, but old Donny prayed
and up she came to fight once more.
The cresting wave was peaking but the anchor still held fast .
A fearsome groan came from below, a crack and then it passed.
For but one moment silence came
and Donny screamed his maker’s name…
too late, too late, the cry was lost,
by weight of water he was tossed
in to the boiling, spume-frothed brine.
Far down he dived in to the rage, in hopes of calmer sea;
the safety bight was tight so he unhitched the line, made free.
He swam possessed, some distance gained,
then burst for breath while wreckage rained
around him, crashing everywhere.
The anchor hit him hard and square;
and blood was on the rusting iron.
Below the waves in plumes of red his twisting body spun;
suspended by the anchor fluke old Donny, lifeless, hung.
Next day the Belle was cast and strewn.
On high-tide line they found her boom,
the sheet all tangled, gooseneck sheared;
no sight of Donny though all peered
out to the sinful, sobbing sea.
One year passed by and stories died of Donny and the Belle.
Flotsam floated in on tides, by and by no one could tell
from where came tackle, shreds of net,
splintered clinker planks and yet
out on the highest granite spike
an anchor-line rust-crusted, tight,
sloped hidden, down in to the deep.
Beneath the beastly, bare-toothed peak, beyond the shelf of shore,
the anchor hung and Donny swung, his fleshly self no more.
His bones picked clean…white-shining… gleamed
in filtered sun, shot through with green;
No ship would sail that close to be
the one who hauled him from the sea…
he was forever overboard.
tectak
2017
Close running to the western gales and on an awkward tide,
the Gina Belle had tumbled on,
her stern was low, her going gone.
The tumult thrashed and spun her round,
in waves that broke on jagged ground
no more than half a league away.
Flayed bladderwrack flew in the spray, old Donny fought the wheel.
The grounding shook her, jarred her straight and pinned her by the keel;
Again, again, again she skewed
until her timbers cracked and flew
in shards that rained upon the deck,
or what was left, until she wrecked
just off the heartless, granite shore.
This way then that she lunged and lurched until the anchor caught.
The hawser ran then plucked and held, the surging pulled it taut…
The seventh wave pressed Gina down,
great pinnacles of rock rose round,
four fathoms down she should have stayed
and lain there, but old Donny prayed
and up she came to fight once more.
The cresting wave was peaking but the anchor still held fast .
A fearsome groan came from below, a crack and then it passed.
For but one moment silence came
and Donny screamed his maker’s name…
too late, too late, the cry was lost,
by weight of water he was tossed
in to the boiling, spume-frothed brine.
Far down he dived in to the rage, in hopes of calmer sea;
the safety bight was tight so he unhitched the line, made free.
He swam possessed, some distance gained,
then burst for breath while wreckage rained
around him, crashing everywhere.
The anchor hit him hard and square;
and blood was on the rusting iron.
Below the waves in plumes of red his twisting body spun;
suspended by the anchor fluke old Donny, lifeless, hung.
Next day the Belle was cast and strewn.
On high-tide line they found her boom,
the sheet all tangled, gooseneck sheared;
no sight of Donny though all peered
out to the sinful, sobbing sea.
One year passed by and stories died of Donny and the Belle.
Flotsam floated in on tides, by and by no one could tell
from where came tackle, shreds of net,
splintered clinker planks and yet
out on the highest granite spike
an anchor-line rust-crusted, tight,
sloped hidden, down in to the deep.
Beneath the beastly, bare-toothed peak, beyond the shelf of shore,
the anchor hung and Donny swung, his fleshly self no more.
His bones picked clean…white-shining… gleamed
in filtered sun, shot through with green;
No ship would sail that close to be
the one who hauled him from the sea…
he was forever overboard.
tectak
2017