Blasting the malachites beneath the rudder,
The seething sea spews pearly blobs of foam.
The shore sails nearer as we move from under
The ship’s smooth, towering shape and make for home.
The pier is empty. Pigeons coo and chatter
And peck at corn and scraps of food… At sea,
The ship’s stern sways, the bowsprit draws a pattern
Upon the dimming sky’s dark canopy.
Where now? March. Dusk. In port, the church bells ringing.
Of spring and sadness full this soul of mine.
Lights at the inn… No, home I’ll go, I’m thinking!
For I am drunk – drunk though I’ve touched no wine.