The Irish Sea, a most

unpleasant place to be

in raging storms when

waves - mast high - mask

out a sullen sky and send

the crewmen scudding over

tilting decks and grasping

nearest uprights to support

themselves – as on the bridge

bells chime out for watchmen

to report below and stow with

safer ties the shifting loads

loose in the vessel’s holds.

It is a timeless game that

Neptune plays to show he

holds the cards of fate as

sailors over centuries have

come to know too well and

hearken to the message from

the Captain on the bridge

who at times like this holds

in his hands the fate of all.

The twists and turns and tilts

of hulls and screeching of the

gulls which squawk with skill

their maritime laments – stave

off for now the doom that one

day may present itself in risky

guise – for hawks are primed a

breath away to home in from

ever scowling skies and swoop.

Ding-ding, Ding-ding, Ding-Ding

chimes yet again the urgent bells

as seas as high as mountains rise

and swell and ships go to their

doom - and hands go reaching out

for rescue from the spuming seas.





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