I’ve been in dodgy joints throughout

my varied life – strife uppermost at

times – and now my joints are dodgy

too. Is that a coming together by my

various parts in sympathy – and know

me better than I know myself. Mirroring

in memory the schoolboy’s happenstance

who sailed when tides were right to Curacao

and sun drenched destinations where dusky

damsels dwelt  giving smiles of welcome and

sometimes a great deal more than that.

Nowadays, I roll again my gait at least in

thought, as if I journeyed still upon the decks

of vessels now consigned to history in the long

Lloyd lists of shipping broken up and thus are

now the tales of ancient mariners to some. Yet

still I think of foreign ports where peace and calm

had reigned after raging heavy seas. But often

too I think of crossing past the Mersey Bar where

bell buoys warned of wrecks that lay upon the

post war ocean bed amid the dead men’s souls.

It was for seamen such as these I think of all the

bonging sounds that wrapt our varied thoughts.

It is for the lawyer types to register their salvage

claims and mull them in the maritime courts.





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