Ned Pickering Arts

Drop of wood in endless blue,
a creaking vessel, hole-ridden, half-rotten,
she dips and spins and turns in waves,
yet the weary sailor somehow stays,

Pensive solitude lines his face,
cupped clammy hands make desperate scoopings,
they beg to keep the water out,
lest she fills and sinks to drown,

But turning storm makes futile game,
of scooping hands and tiresome rowings,
set down the oars, here comes a wave!

Desperately clinging to the wood,
he raises his raincoat jacket-hood,
mighty water crashes on boat,
and violent spray fills his throat,
she tips and rocks but still not under,
as sky splits with lightning, the song of thunder,

A tower of water churns into view,
it looms in a threat to throw beneath,
carries the vessel up its face,
the sailor clinging in vertigo,
this one’s the end he thinks he knows,

The wave it slams down with a roar,
empties the sailor and his oars,
treading dark water in the storm,
what choice does he have but retrieve the oars?

Lightning gifts his eyes with sight,
he finds his oars or did they find him?
curses the boat somehow still afloat,
swims over to clutch her skyward belly,

He waits all night for the final wave,
but the storm is done, it’s passed its rage,
gold sun rises, cuts through cloudy sky,
and he somehow turns his ship back upright,

Scooping hands begin again,
and soon she’s empty of water, his friend,
he sets to rowing directionless once more,
to find one day that land he saw