From the Crow's Nest, That April Night
The night was perfect
on this unsinkable boat
as the man in the crow’s nest
kept watch.
He fumbled to find
his binoculars,
but they were gone.
“It’s okay,” he said,
vowing he’d do
the best that he could.
The vessel sailed,
The Atlantic
dark as the sky;
the waning crescent moon
had already set.
The surface of the water
was as smooth as a mirror,
and as he blinked his eyes
he envisioned couples dancing
in opulence below deck.
Some mate had told him,
they’d make the crossing
in record time.
He thought of his wife and children
waiting back home,
thinking once he’d make shore
he’d wire them to say
it was a glorious journey, indeed.
Until something loomed ahead
like a ghost.
He squinted and squinted
to see what it could be.
He thought that it could be
something or nothing;
the mate had told him
the waters were clear,
but when he notified
the captain,
it was too late.
He and 1500 others died
that April night,
but some lived
to tell the tale.
Three nights later
the stars shone on his grave
on the shores of Newfoundland.
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