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