Galleons rip through surging waves,
tempest tips like frosting edge the grey,
and bows sharpened,
cut through the swell.
Figureheads smile with rhythmic taunt,
parting seas with effortless will,
riding hard the incessant crestless sway,
with aching wood and taunt lines pulled,
holding, forever holding,
death at bay.
Seven ships in all,
contesting nature’s darkest mood,
flags set high of errant flight,
red strips clinging in darkest night;
like panicked gulls they flutter hard,
atop the empty crows nests,
driven into troughs so deep,
pounding hearts they lose some beats,
one foot in Davy Jones’ locker.
One sail up to steady,
the rest tied fast and ropes belayed,
deckhands lashed to mast and post,
dipped in rage of water’s run;
keel thrashed back and forth,
as bodies flung across the deck, like rags,
gasping breath, surviving.
Seven Galleons went to sea,
and crossed the Cape to calmer waters,
but only five found haven in life’s embrace,
the others lost in watery caverns.
The silent calm of storms release,
brought men to quiet in depth of grief,
for all those mates that lost that night,
when nature’s brood
did claim those lives.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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