The Rime of the Middle-Aged Mariner

The siren here on the rocks is Scotch,
And the song she sings, of smoke and
Dirt, has drawn me close, a wreck,
To wreck what's left of me against
Her shore. I do not hear the calls of others.
I'm not part of any crew. I am, instead,
The man adrift, whose thoughts don't
Fit, whose clothes are wrong, whose
Lack of faith has led his mates to fling
Him overboard and go. I saw the sails
Consumed by waves, and rocked for
Days, for years, upon the board that
They had left for me. There are no
Points of reference where I have been,
So I have taught myself to cling to
Anything. The siren calls. Her
Master says this is her last. I see
Us trading blows because there's
No one else; there can be nothing
More. I will not ride the board another
Lifetime, will not seek a crew. I'll
Stay with her, and, should he try
To stop me, he'll be through.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 58 times
Written on 2010-05-28 at 01:24

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