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Poem

On a wind-tossed day at Port Gale
I saw a small ship out at sea,
amidst the tall white-caps it sailed,
though it did so clumsily,
pitching back and forth rapidly.
I knew not who sailed upon it,
thought I felt a growing worry,
as the fo’castle sank a bit.

With a crack something inside failed,
and the vessel lurched violently,
the crew screamed out their travails
as the hard motion hurled them free,
until their forms I could not see.
A head or leg would rise and flit,
but then just vanished utterly,
no lives would the harsh waves remit.

The small ship now rendered so frail,
and the waters would let none flee,
its hull bobbed like a carcass whale
awaiting the sharks morbidly,
did God not hear the desperate pleas?
If He did, He cared not a wit,
or saw need for this tragedy,
but His reasons would not admit.

The bow dipped, it sank completely,
plunging down on its final trip,
the scene of such calamity
is just ocean that churns and spits.

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