Salt spray the sensation you’d think to miss,

the heaving deck your only anchor

as the sun rises on set sails

and the canon roars.

 

A shout into oblivion, the black

trajectory of the missile falling

short, creating a fountain of brine

while the mate mouths

oaths and the captain shouts.

 

Blood on the decks as all hands

wield mops and pails to sluice and clean.

The shrouds are stitched, we limp

home and the salt spray

is the one constant.

Etched on the memory.

 

 

After Kandisnky ‘Sea Battle – improvisation  31’ 1913