Eight Bells

Mere metal cannot win out, but it tries.

All able-bodied hands, subdued to dyes

To polish porthole, clock, and binnacle.

To gild the ship with all it will be sans.

Wind whips the sheets and shrouds. Drink deep the liquor

Be glad they gleam. Be glad the wind once blew.

To comment on this poem, please click here.

here.

If you have enjoyed this poem and want to read more by Len Krisak, please click here.