Harbour Dues Poem by Sailing to windward

With creaking spars and squeaking lines bound mute
and noble sweeping deck laid anvil still
at last mates safely dream of their next route

By floating silver grace with gentle mind.
Of steady bow, and slow -mo rise and fall.
Of sun, so warm tar melts and tingles toes

to skimming pace, breathing in laughing stolen gasps
and hair whipped eyes, slit thin and stung with salt,
from waves that tease, give chase, and harmless crash.

Then, to smashing maelstrom, heaved gut, blind fear
failed gear, drowned shouts, flailing arms - lost,
amid dark grey and heartless waves, sleep sinks.