By John Butterfield
My life depends on ironwork, anvil
forged
in nocturnal sea loch swell.
Wind: gale force eight.
The tempest howls; the rigging rings.
Sea state: rough.
The yacht rocks with violent swings
Visibility: poor.
Low cloud; the rain lashes; splashes.
Outlook: deteriorating
All is wild, disturbed and crashes
Far beneath angry black the barb bites
sludge, slime, weed and shale.
In my bunk, cosy, comfortable
sleep amid the ferocious gale.
Trusting the strength of every link
and the weight embedded deep
below.
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