Big ships cruise on the briny deep,
along with birds of white feather.
The billows roll ~ the winds are high
and Skippers wear treated leather.
Liners sail on the ocean wide
in such rough and stormy weather
But I've no real need to sail the seas
Terra-Cotta Vale is my pleasure.
Big vessels brave the ocean wave
One, was Cook's sturdy 'Endeavour'...
Where she lies now is a mystery!
It's a place called 'doubt' forever.
I've no real desire to sail the seas,
I prefer a walk in moorland heather.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem