Lapping at the bow I groan,
catch meandering moans in the sky,
as something floats languid in the tide.
Its sullen thump against the hull,
reminds me of the sibilant lull
of the sirens caress,
and the creep of approaching death.
As water rises I shiver and shake
at the porthole's bloated face.
I splutter and choke on my final drink,
no sweet burn of rum in the rising
foam of blood and bile.
A tap-tap at the port hole reels me in,
nightmares take hold in the hold
as I drift off into dark water.
Then I rush unbidden from the abyss.
Mix with smoke blown in the night
past the pale swaying moon
pulling me high above a macabre scene,
played out on the ruffled gleam
of the black, black sea.
Boats circle a scooped out shell of wood
spilling its cargo, like greasy blood
to colour the surf.
Boats alive with hooded pariah,
that harvest a crop from the sea's loam;
wave smashed, wind blown.
Screams ring out as one by one,
weeds that would spoil
the crop are pulled.
Buoy-like bobbing at the surface -
fleshy charcoal pimples
n the dark ocean,
floundering naked d bound
fightinghting the drag seay.
to againo again be free.
© Rowan Joyce, all rights reserved.