The Clearance Diver Poem by Ray Sinclair

The Clearance Diver
Boy of sixteen waits for the train,
trying to be brave it's only in vain.
Nervous inside he try's to be still,
join the navy that's his will.

Seated on board, stations flash by,
he sees none and questions why?
Full of excitement, mixed with fear
HMS Raleigh is drawing near.

Long hair trimmed, suitcase in hand,
Strolls to main gates this silent band.
One of many, feels alone,
thinks of loved ones back at home.

Queuing for kit all so new,
given a bunk, dressed in blue.
Packing away clothes, making a bed,
a navy life for years ahead.

Lying awake, trying to sleep,
been a long day, he hears lads weep.
The sanctuary of sleep finally falls,
time to wake up, hears the calls.

Lights burst on no gentle rise,
dustbin lids clang, what a surprise!
Crashing together, ' time to roll out '!
the Petty Officer's shout.

Dressed in eights, time to train,
learning to march, pouring rain.
The day is long, at the galley he's fed,
needs to collapse, get down his head.

Basic training underway,
Gun drills, seamanship everyday.
passed the course, training done,
time for leave and have some fun.

Off to Vernon the chosen few go,
to become divers, their toughness must show.
Physical fitness won't be enough,
mentally weak, will be seen for their bluff.

He look's at his oppo's, it's a bit of a mess
Listen to me ' you've got two minutes to dress. '
Horsea lake they dive once more,
Up and down jack stays, it's becoming a chore.

Live in week, cream of the crop,
those who became divers, rose to the top.
Deep work up on shots, all but done,
starting to realise, he'll soon be one.

Now wears a Divers badge, with much pride,
feeling of self satisfaction, hard to hide.
Danger, risk, does his best where and when,
Navy Divers are a great breed of men.

The boy who was, now a young man,
oceans to cross and journeys to plan.
Sea to sea, he's destined roam,
a life on the waves is now his home.

As an old salt his time is due,
sits on a bench looking at the sea-view.
Face is aged, memory great,
thinks of his oppo's, proud to call, mate.

Time is served, your duty done,
Always remembered with the setting sun.
Five bells sent, one last ocean to cross
Those that are left, can but mourn your loss.


Written by Ray Sinclair on 09/06/14
© 2014 Ray Sinclair