The Fighting Temeraire

The Fighting Temeraire
I lead this Queen to a guillotine
She follows me with dignity and grace
all English oak and 98 guns.
I am an unsuitable escort for my Lady,
my low born coarseness, the effort of towing her punctuated
by upward belches and grinding grunts, I am unbecoming as a royal guard
but she is silent, already haunted
She no longer flies the Union Jack as she did in battle
but a white flag of sale
and surrender
She is no longer adorned by ornament or armament
She will never again feel a storm fight to strip her sails from her body in violent passion
her clothes have been sold
In her nakedness, she is ethereal
but I am aware of Temeraire’s glorious past
The Battle of Trafalgar;
She swept to the side of the wounded HMS Victory,
and through intrepid maneuvers and savage fighting,
saved the shattered Victory from certain death,
and took two ships hostage.
But today, the sun sets in the distance on the days of elegant,
tall-masted warships
There are streaks of red in the sky and sea, that match the streaks of red
on her deck, that can’t be washed away
I’ve been paid a purse of coin to escort her to the other side.
As I am reluctantly relieved of the tow ropes that bind us,
I hope that pieces of her live on somewhere
In tribute to the Fighting Temeraine.

artekphrasis

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