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Poems
by Charles
Jobson
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The log of the Defiance
I
hope we make Spanish Town by
midday.
Tensions high on sweated
brows—
the men need a break
and I’m one of them.
Valuable
cargoes perhaps—
rum, batched in straw
not for our use,
for the higher classes only.
On
the bridge
optically keen telescope
looking out for the first
sight of port—
we can’t wait to get there.
When
the sea thunders through
your tiny mind relapses.
Much better to watch from the
shore—
yes, leave it to the sea
gulls—
Suddenly—slate
grey roofs and
palm trees
like a prayer answered.
The ship makes for the quay,
happy forest of masts.
There’s
no loved ones waiting.
We make do,
glad to step on solid ground,
ready for a glass and fresh
vittels.
Image of the watercolour "The Defiance firing her guns" by Kate Mahoney.
© Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.