Driftwood

Moonlit waves lap the shore,

Breaking upon rocks

And carved keels

Dragged ashore by tired hands.

For them lies no adventure,

No dreams of romance

Upon the high seas.

They sweat and toil

Pulling net and rope

Deep into the night.

For them no rest in old age

With a captains hat and rich pipe

And fat cats

Sprawled before the fire place.

Only aching backs

And sore limbs,

The price for years

Of floating slavery.

For them no quaint cabins

Behind golden beaches,

Cosy and warm in the morning mist.

Only dingy shacks

Of planks and rusted roofs,

Under which they suffer through life

In cramped squalor and poverty.

At times they remember

Friends and brothers

Claimed as sacrifice by hungry waves,

At times lost at sea

And at times found on sandy shores,

Always dead.

Always blue, bloated and rotting.

There is no poetry in being claimed by the sea.

Only pain and anguish

And bodies as black as driftwood.