The morning sky blazed crimson red,
A warning of the pending storm,
As out to sea the small fleet sailed,
Past fishing wharf and docks forlorn.
By noon the seas began to swell,
As sudden gusts of wind swept o'er,
And threatening clouds in blackened mass,
Complained with deafening thunder roar.
The fleet, securely battened down,
At first repelled the storm's strong surge,
But by day's end, the lashing seas
And wind became a mournful dirge.
The savage storm raged through the night,
With howling wind and towering waves
That thundered down upon the ships
And dashed them to their watery graves.
The heaving brine destroyed at will
With devastating power and strength,
Then, when night's veil was torn by morn,
The seas began to quiet at length.
The women watched with anxious heart,
Along the leeched and battered shore,
They feared disaster might have struck
The fishing fleet they waited for.
It did not come by morning's light.
Nor did it come by heat of noon.
It did not come by sunset's fire.
It did not come by full of moon.
All the town began to mourn
For menfolk sorely lost at sea.
And children laid awake at night
Wondering where their fathers be.
Days, then months, a year slipped by.
The pain did not subside with time.
And then, one night, a grieving lad
Was drawn towards the bleak shoreline.
He rested on a wooden pier,
Shivering in the cold and damp.
He stared a long time out to sea
Through mist that blurred the lighthouse lamp.
Then, suddenly, a mast appeared -
A ghost ship pierced the evening fog.
A second spectre soon emerged;
An apparition frail and flawed.
They passed in eerie silence there,
With tattered sails and broken keels,
Then disappeared beyond the shoal
Without their helmsmen at their wheels.
The young lad recognized the ships;
These phantom vessels on the foam,
And knew at once, with mind at rest,
The village fleet had wandered home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem