Alone she stands, a beacon, calling loud into the night
And to her warm embrace she beckons, drawing in with love and light,
Her warmth and tender words, they promise rest and fretless sleep
Through crashing waves, and razor rocks they flood into her keep
Her eyes as dark as deepest seas, upon which they once sailed
Her pallid skin, her blood red lips, the cross on which impailed
They pledge their love and service for the promise of life’s rest
And at last find solace in the embrace of her breast
Until the end of days, beneath the waves, they serve the throne
Lost to the world and those they left that toil the sun, alone
And in her wake they trail as slow she gathers for her store
Until their memories have faded, and at last they are no more
She slips her hand, soft, into his and tender does suggest
that had she known him years ago then all would now be best
Sweet promises that seek to mend the things that cause such rot
With shallow smile he nods, and lies, for he believes her not
Like knotted roots, the tangled web of thoughts run deep and wide
And in the dark he chooses what she seeks to coldly hide
For these things make us who we are, and stoic he persists
Lives the ruin he will not give up, that blinds like winter’s mists
Something a bit different today
She slips beneath the silver spray, and into Neptune’s cold embrace
A tidy pile left in the sand, and not a thing left out of place
The rancid rot of time, well hid, laid bare where lovers hands caress
And in the waves, they tumble, she succumbs to false confess
She counts the life she lived, the lovers lost, and feels the dark
Until his siren beckons, turn away, and to his call she harks
And setting sun lights up the crashing waves like fire’s embers
She looks, forlorn, as hand in hand he leads, but she remembers
But it’s too late, their vows are said, she reigns and rules alone
In inky depths, her seaweed crown on bleached white, flesh stripped bone
I’m just kidding. Honest.
There’s a saying that runs in our family, coming from fishing stock as I do, and it goes something along the lines of “Worse things happen at sea.” It’s pretty patronising and somewhat dismissive and gets trotted out most often when you bemoan a situation that the other person couldn’t give a monkey’s chuff about.
“Mom I’ve banged my knee…”
“Oh it’s just a scratch, worse things happen at sea son.”
Thing is there comes a point though when through indifference and old age I am finding it becoming my standard response to even more serious situations and it has me thinking that perhaps things really were quite terrible at sea and granddad was a quiet man not because of all the time he spent out on the water but because of all the awful things that must have befallen him.
Should my kids want sympathy then you know, I want to see a leg dangling limp with bone sticking through the skin because I am pretty sure something worse happened to granddad Tom at sea and it probably involved biting down hard on something and crying for his dead mother.
Should they be feeling a little blue then I find myself resisting a fatherly hug but instead insisting that it is considerably more taxing out on the waves and that they should pull themselves together, pack their bags and stop crying over being put up for adoption because it is just a waste of good tears and they should keep them for the orphanage because they’re going to need them.
I know it may seem harsh but I tell you, they just don’t make them like those salty sea dogs do they.