Marks of Abstraction

In the broken reflection the sea provides,
Influenced by the stronger summer sun,
Is the image of a grim visaged boy,
Waiting for the five minute race gun,
His face almost the anti-Christ of joy,

In fact that couldn’t be further from the truth,
He feels happy, secure, when he’s out here alone,
The wind in his hair, and sun on his face,
He feels truly and wholly that this is his home,
Carving through the splayed waves embrace,

One hand resting on the sensitive helm,
The other gripping the loose coil of the mainsheet,
That is full of air in the most gentle breeze,
Whilst the jibs line is wrapped round the iron cleat,
Upon his Open '60, in the Solents enigmatic seas,

Perhaps it’s the only place he truly feels free,
Maybe it’s his fortunate and welcome escape,
Or it’s the only world that he understands,
Where there are no secret agendas, or hidden shapes,
And only the race officials calm and tranquil demands,

So when he tacks the yacht round the second mark,
And lays it perfectly and directly off to port,
He grins a small smile of satisfaction,
Bows his head and thanks the lords for this sport,
And lays his bow down to the next mark of abstraction,