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Leviathan
On bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its clear blue waters grace.
Where yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows breach the feeding pod,
and dive in fabled echolocation
bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Yet still ghost ships the old hunting grounds scout
its mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon or flense sound its death throes
and may long live the shout of “thar she blows!”.
Written: July 1992
Copyright ©
Keith D Trestrail
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