Cape Horn - Poem by Diane Hine
In Drake Passage, the gleeful sea saith…
‘Yo sailors! You’ll not pass me by stealth.
Vessels cut my muscle but not my strength.
Your sailing ship’s too fat with plundered wealth.
I want a tithe of weathered skin; a tenth.
Bony arms aloft, furl sail the yard’s length.
I smell greased plaits, cold sweat and warm breath.
Free pass to tars who jig my shibboleth.
Reel on slick, pitched decks across my breadth,
or sink inside my ever-tightening depth.
Come in! The brine’s fine. I’ll drink your health,
bone, muscle, fat, skin, hair, sweat and breath.’
Comments about Cape Horn by Diane Hine
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.