Plastic cutlass, ragged pants, tangled tattered braces,
Grandma’s bloomers puff like a sail,
while I tripped over my laces
I set my face into flailing winds,
launched my boat with a rusty old tin.
Ploughed out onto the leafy lane
which sat on the shore of my Spanish Maine .
Breezy and fresh in the wind chilled weather
spray whipped up round dustbin lids.
Waved as I navigated Reverend McCall.
Picked orchard apples to use as cannon balls,
my rudder now a furrow in the puddle of my sea,
I who was Pugwash, boson, capitaine,
felt in that moment deliriously free.
Wind sang then moaned like Italian sopranos,
through mists, fogs, squalls, and doldrumming heat.
Driving over cobble stones, head jammed in bobble hat,
my sea dog barking to frighten every alley cat,
hoisted skull and cross bones from the handle of my cricket bat.
I who was submarined, starfished and jellybeaned,
tin tack catapulted through imaginations door.
Down to sea shanty town, blaze from a bonfire,
warming my backside like “Smudgers” splintered cane.
Then headed back to port, soot blackened, dust sloughed,
my school trousers holed on each and every knee.
I’d puffed on a Woodbine searching for my coast line,
but was soaked to the skin by a sudden squall of pee.
There stood Grandpa firing at the back yard
as I anchored my wellies and went inside for tea,
Crikes! I’d lost Grandma’s bloomers through being all at sea.