The skulking squall suddenly sprung

choosing three little fishing boats as prey.

The sky became leaden with inky clouds,

a merciless gale howled and shrieked

skimming salt spray off the crests.

 

Trio of tiny coloured boats bobbing desperately

like  children's nutshell toys.

Planks straining to scale the dark green walls

then crashing down into the troughs again,

all thinking they were doomed.

 

Two made it  back just in time

to the shelter of the harbour wall,

their women waiting whitefaced on the sand,

but the last caught by a wicked broadside,

twin brothers trapped in the wheelhouse,

as the boat descended to the depths.

 

Their mother wept, starved, and pined away

without a grave to mourn her boys.

So an Ancient Mariner was summoned.

One who in his youthful seafaring days

had survived hurricanes and typhoons,

now a mottled skinny bag of brittle bones,

one tooth and opaque sky blue eyes,

just visible beneath his woollen hat

and turned up greatcoat collar.

 

They pushed him to the cliff top

to sit among sea pinks and eider nests.

He gazed out sightlessly towards the waiting fleet

whispering directions - further to port, ahead,

now starboard, using signal lamps.

 

The boat was found with Ian and Drew

buried together in death as in life.