Dunraven after the storm

I

As we rounded the Lizard, Bristol bound,
The gale backed to southerly,
Pushing the Hazel towards the Welsh shore.
We were low in the water,
Heavy with hogsheads of wine from Lisbon;
She rolled and pitched all night.

Time after time we climbed the rigging,
Taking in sail to slow our speed.
The storm blew out as dawn was breaking;
The rocks were just a league ahead.
When the roll was called, there was an absence.


II

The morning light revealed the damage:
The high-tide line strewn with plastic flotsam;
The busy waves had undermined the cliff,
Claiming a yard of ground.
On the pebbles lie exposed pale bones,
Remains of a long-dead sailor,
Washed up one night, buried hastily then and there,
Perfunctory charity to an unknown soul.

Even in our high-tech homes,
Where we live, encapsulated from the elements,
We are not safe. On any night we may become an absence,
Dependent for our fate upon the mercy of a Stranger.



Martin Locock, 2000