The Cove

I sailed the yacht right into the cove

And away from the breaking storm,

I hadn’t intended staying there,

It was dark before the dawn,

The rain came down in a blinding sheet

And obscured the further shore,

I’d have turned around and sailed away

If I’d known what it held in store.

 

The sun came up on a greying sky

Though the rain had passed ahead,

Around the cove there were mountains,

I reefed in, and sounded the lead,

We sat in a bare three fathoms so

I gave the anchor the slip,

Then saw that over the further shore

Was an ancient sailing ship.

 

Its sails were hanging, tattered and torn

And the yards, they hung in shreds,

There wasn’t a movement there aboard

For the crew must all be dead,

It looked so desolate, by the shore

Like a ship that had died in pain,

But still afloat, as it must have once

Sailed proud on the Spanish Main.

 

Then further over beyond the ship

And spreading along the shore,

A line of dwellings in weathered oak

Like nothing I’d seen before,

And in the midst was a tavern with

A sign that swung in the breeze,

I thought I could see a painted skull

Half-hidden between the trees.

 

I dropped the dinghy and rowed to shore

And dragged it up on the beach,

Tied it up to an ancient log

Not even the tide could reach,

Then walked around to the settlement,

So still, with no-one about,

And hoped the Tavern was burning wood

For my clothes, to dry them out.

 

A girl appeared at the Tavern door

In a sort of fancy dress,

She wore a bonnet and apron too

But her face looked quite distressed,

‘Good sire,’ she muttered, ‘Please turn about

Go back the way that you came,

You don’t belong in a land of wrong

In a time of eternal shame.’

 

‘I’m wet,’ I said, ‘and I need to dry

So I beg an hour of your time,

A plate of vittals, a jug of beer

Some warmth, that isn’t a crime!’

‘You know not what you encounter here

If you’re wise, you’d better not know,

Three hundred years is a terrible time

To be fettered in chains, please go!’

 

I pushed right past and I walked right in

To the dingy, dim-lit bar,

Some sailors sat at the tables there

And stared, as if from afar,

Their clothes were tattered, their beards were grey

And their eyes were glassy and white,

While cobwebs covered their pewter mugs

That their hands had gripped so tight.

 

Their mouths, though moving, the only sound

Was the rasping croak of despair,

I couldn’t fathom a single word

That fell on that tainted air,

They came toward me as in a dream

And one fell down on his knees,

The maid said, ‘See what you’ve done to them,

I’ll ask you again, please leave!’

 

A chill ran suddenly down my back

And I turned and made for the door,

Ran right out to the narrow beach

I shouldn’t have left before,

I heard the sound of a cannon shot

The whiff of smoke from the ship,

And watched my yacht as it reared and sank

To its grave, three fathoms deep.

 

I turned in horror and saw the maid

As she shrivelled and aged in time,

‘I warned you sire, now you’ll never leave,

You’re caught in an ancient rime,

The crew took over our tiny town

In seventeen sixty three,

But you’d be free of the spell that bound

If you’d only listened to me.’

 

I sit depressed at a writing desk

And sign my name with a quill,

Ten years have passed since that fateful day

An eternity left to fill.

The Captain thinks he can sail away

To roam on the Spanish Main,

But the ship, it rots more, day by day

And I’ll never get home again!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

This is absolutely fantastic. The rhythm and rhyme flows like a waterfall. The story told with a cadence akin to the ticking clock that it embodies. Makes you wonder bout the souls that have come and gone over the centuries.How many ended on the bottom? Surly their fate not much better than a stint in the southern ocean on St Georges island.Men have always gone to sea.Many to never be seen again.I would like to think they ended their days on a deserted island rather than with Poseidon.

[David Scott]

Love this David!
I can't help but think of the land all writers live in...
Our lives rot around us while somehow we try to pen words that will live on like ghosts or angels when we would have otherwise been forgotten in time.
A fun story with a little mystery and a" take home pearl" or two.

[Keith]

Another great read,. Thanks again David.

[Dhaye]

Sometimes we are that stubborn person who never listen when anyone speaks and gives us some hints to get away with our troubles.

Nice poem, Sir David. :)