Fourteen Fathoms Deep Poem by Charles Whittaker

She's resting, now fourteen fathoms deep
below the waves, furred and rotting still.
Her outlined frame blurred as if in sleep;
the blood-stained victim of a canon's kill.

Below the waves, furred and rotting, still
she lies, unseeing through those murky holes.
The blood-stained victim of a canon's kill
discovered during random night patrols.

She lies unseeing through those murky holes,
dark solace to homeless shambling creatures,
discovered during random night patrols
and marked by the attack upon her features.

Dark solace to homeless shambling creatures,
her outlined frame. Blurred, as if in sleep,
and marked by the attack upon her features,
she's resting now. Fourteen fathoms deep.