The Margaret Rose.

 .

There was little time, even less warning,

when an anger of ocean smashed

her port side and in a blink

the mother-of-all broke her like a stick,

today she sits with her remainder of men.

 

Currents sea-wind her beech decks

and wave a sheaf of seaweed flags,

a click of crabs entertain in her lower reaches

stargazed by swords of fractured light

ghosted through the blue-green,

the night alone would close her soul and free

a fleet of rainbowed life aswim between the ribs of men.

 

She creaks and flexes, tied only by anchor in the undercurrent,

twisting from stern to hull she moans as an old man

while a wicked brine corrodes and preserves selectively,

imprisoned from swell and tempered wave she rests,

               bit by bit returned to a collecting shore,

a jigsaw of remains.

Reviews

[MomzillaNC]

I love historical poetry. This is about the Indian ship, yes?

[Brendan McCallum]

You are very kind, there may well be a ship of this name but I know not of it, I was just chasing the story after its last mast sank beyond view.... Love that you looked at this piece of mine, I will google the ship name perchance it be real........... thank you for reading, Bren

[MomzillaNC]

I think it was an Indian ship in the 40s that sank in a Typhoon.

[Brendan McCallum]

I will investigate that.... either way it matters not as all sunken things deplete the same... I think... ty again Bren

[MomzillaNC]

You're welcome.