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.’
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Comments about this poem (Cape Horn by Diane Hine )
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