An Old Sailor's Rhyme

Good day. Well I told you I'd publish a poem: here goes...

Come hither,lad,and hark to what I say;

A sailor proud you say you'd wish to be?

On fisher's boats you've sailed many a day,

and know the wind,the fish,the boat,the sea-

Or think you do-for,lad,the fickle sea

is changing as the seasons or the moon;

she casts down those who would her master be,

to those who fear she grants her precious boon.

Are you one of those high men who would say

that she is nought but brine and wind and rain?

If so,my lad,you'd spend many a day

with not a breath of wind or a fish slain;

the sun would beat upon your weary face,

and at your great expense the fish would laugh;

you'd come back ruined from the sorry place

you thought to tame- 'twas she who quelled your heart.

But is she truly fairer to us men

who know and fear her fickle changing moods?

A thousand winds and rainstorms she has sent

our way,and ever we do hear the cackle crude

that is the wind-a wind that blesses us

or curses on a whim,while fish may ne'er

be caught within our traps,unless She trusts

that we deserve,and grants them to our snare?

Lad,you have ne'er been caught within her storms

of anger, you have ne'er been subject to

her fits of cackling laughter,cold and warm,

pondered your fate,without a hint or clue.

You've ne'er looked out across obsidian seas

and seen but grey,the land obscured by mist,

while overhead the darker clouds soared free,

like great black ships firing their hail, and whisk'd

aloft by howling swirling winds that ripp'd

at cloth,and sail,and rope,and hands,and soul.

Your little coracle has never tripp'd

through waves thrice greater than the foremast whole;

those tow'ring waves that toss your structure frail

about,as though it was a toy to use,

have ne'er crashed down their mass 'neath thrashing sail,

or caus'd even your mind to shatter loose.

A sailor must not fear the shade of death,

for,when the wind is stronger than the mast

and when the bucking boat threatens to sink,

a sailor must be wary 'till the last,

and never for an instant fear to think

that he may die at sea,far from his world.

A sailor is resolved that ev'ry trip

from home may be the last thing in this world

he ever does,and that the sea could rip

his breath away and take him for her own.

So, lad, be you of stout resolve to sail

that liquid temptress,'neath a mourning sky?

If so, you have my blessing,and my frail boat,

and,if one stormy night you were to die,

you have my warning- now be free and float!

-JAFHR-