Clinker Built

Hugged the chilly shingle shore lapping

Through the dense, morning fog chugging

Passing groynes, poles, posts and more

Particles cold to the beard clinging

To the bowler and balaclava we wore.

Rotting clinker built boat, Seagull engine puttering

Dirty fuel and feeble spark, Seagull engine spluttering

Split gunwales, rusty rowlocks, diving bags,

Pungent petrol vapour and greasy, oily rags

And boards sun-bleached soapy light

A frail craft heading for the Isle of Wight.

Stopped beside the stone sentinel round

Marvelled at this relic of Napoleonic times,

Listening for the modern dangers that abound

Nostrils flared, ears keen, eyes peeled.

No wave slap, no seabird squawk, not a sound.

A hoot!

Hark!

Distant warning.

Thick fog obscured view, a thick curtain

Held us in our own damp wraparound

Suppressed little marine world, certain

We were not safe; oh so vulnerable

From the Argonaut, juggernaut, tankernaut

Cyclops blundering along busy sea lanes distraught.

A vast grey tonnage above us loomed

Towering high, like a telephoto zoomed.

Dragged aside, made ragged our foggy veil, flimsy

Bulbous nose thrusting through the dim sea

Ghosting a furrow through the Solent.

Engine started, we turned from the bow wave

Only to turn again, our little boat to save.

Waited in that tanker’s wake.

Out to Bembridge Ledge we started to head

A section of the journey that held our dread.

Martin Delemare

12^th October 2011