The old sea dog lies dying, gate secure against the tide
His boat brought home lies furbished, in case of one more ride.
His locker key is counter paned wrapped up inside his pride
His sailing roots betray him, sheets billow through the trees,
His mast holds up the washing line, rudder sweeps the leaves
The south sou’ westers of his youth now whisper in the eaves.
The anchor’s long encrusted, sprayed, inlaid with sand,
a map of all his oceans indentured on his hands.
The siren call seems fainter as dusk falls on distant lands.
He barely sees majestic waves, damp marmalade and toast,
his bedspread sewn with cockle shells, that have travelled from the coast.
A mermaid soothes his weathered brow, the niece of Neptune’s ghost
Storms crash into lamp posts on nearby avenues,
The paper boys wear wellies while delivering the news.
Seagull’s screech from roof tops in a sharp exchange of views.
The old man’s sea side instincts rose up against the flow.
his boat set off with him inside, through a funneling undertow
and sail out far and further wide, to die where salt winds blow .