The Sailor

Twelve miles out
On a wind-bitten sea
Where the sky is a part
Of the spray-woven fabric

The boat tumbles over
The waves and roils
And cusps curl over the
Brim of the shell.

A grizzled old animal
Weathers the cold and
The wet and the grey
And the salty-tinged spittle

Tossed up like tears of
Some woebegone monster
Weeping and raging beneath
The great waves.

This Godforsaken
Who huddles untouched
By the cold or the
Damp or the
Impending weather

Is not damned, or
A thief or a general
Who’s made victims
Of innocents
Hidden or sleeping
In the night,

But a man, just a man
Of choice and decision
The author of
Whistle-blows
Tuneless-swept by the wind.

Gnarled hands that are
Knotted like the net that
They work,
Twisted and worn and yet
Strong as the binding

Between heaven and earth
Between water and wave
Between the great spirit
Of the sea and the brave.