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I venture on a falling tide,
my little ship the current rides
down river to the open sea,
from Carrick Roads first to be free.

Anthony Head I hoist the sails
and now the boat leans to its rail
as winds hand grips and gives it course
in the uncertain land-breeze force.

Swiftly I run the green salt road,
where Pilgrim Fathers ships once strode,
Drake set the foreign sailor dread
and Packets news the Empire fed.

The lift and fall of my wood stead
rode on a westerly sea breeze,
sheet in the sails and head her forth
upon this salt sprayed bucking course.

South west away I see the teeth,
the Manacles, that hungry beast
has fed upon the bones of man
since first he ventured the sea,s span.
 
Now on my bow motioning slow
its great steel marker buoy speaks low,
a mournful lonely elegy. 
to all the lives there lost at sea.

I think of tragic emigrants, 
set off  with hope and confidence
in wooden ships with east set sails,
upon the wind and tides deaths rails.

Not long to think upon these things
as now that wicked wind loud sings,
“Circle about on homeward tack,
let’s test your boat can take you back”.


Now with the sea upon my stern,
it’s time for me my choice to earn,
I surf the hissing chasing green
within whose troughs no land is seen.

A time be sure to keep ones head
as swiftly homeword I am sped,
boat must not turn or those high waves 
will swamp us to a watery grave.
 
But all who love to sail the sea 
will tell that such adversity’s
the essence of the great depart 
from routine to adventures art. 

Close this adventures to its end,
high to view the mariners friend,
atop the cliffs the lighthouse stands
welcoming home to Cornwall’s lands.

Back in the Roads to furl the sails,
to start the engines grumbling wail,
down to Percuil and mooring’s keep,
where boat and I will berth and sleep.
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