The Skipper

Set yourself the task
of counting waves
and cormorant dives,
and falling drops of rain.
Record the geese
calling deep
in signs of peace.
from feather whistled skies

Mark the shifts
while noting down
each berthing
and departure.
Of trawlers
set for rising seas
that you once skippered on.

Listen, hear the old
vixen yap
across Loch Sionnach.
Record each inch
of growing grass
Where sea breezes rattling
maron tufts
and high masts.
Set down in stone
the kraken roar
from distant shores
And mists that recedes
on ebbing tides.

From ten to four you sit
in chambers fit
for ocean kings.
A vaulted dome of heaven above
a bollard top a throne.

It’s cold on bones
but still you come
to the rich company of
multitudes.

It beats the fire
that lies still cold
in the solitude at home.

– Dave Kavanagh

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