16 Apr

One starry, still night off the Isle of Wight
In cold and liquid darkness made your wake
the ghost of fate took form before your bow light
and turned your maiden voyage into rape

A glancing blow was all it seemed to take
to swiftly submerge blue-blood’s bloated pride
and turn a voyage from the grandest state
into a vain and violent suicide

For seven and seventy years at sea
you have held vigil in the murky depths
amid the crushing darkness of fathoms

Adorned with rust and sea anemone
your grand staircase no long bound with steps
to entrance these aqueous catacombs

JJM, 1990

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