Some days at sea are nothing but work.
Heave out and trice up. The smoking lamp’s lit.
All one can dream of are stable foundations,
Roots in the soil, and walls made of stone.
Some days at sea are seven nights long.
Stand to at muster and stand tall on watch.
All one regrets is the sin of the Garden,
Exiled from Eden and sworn to the mast.
Some days at sea are lived in the dark,
Crouching below deck past canvas and hemp.
All one can smell is the taint of the wicked
Wafting from hammocks asway in the swell.
Some days at sea are heavy and damp,
No sleep to comfort the ache of fatigue.
All one imagines is Saint Brendan’s mercy,
Tribute for Neptune, and safe passage home.
Some days at sea are absolute calm,
Fair seas that follow with no hint of storm.
All one envisions are distant horizons,
Some looming outward, and others within.