Wednesday, 4 July 2012


The old mate

I see him; I see him so clearly.

Battered cap
for his balding head,
frazzled beard 
at the bottom
of a well-worn face.
Eyes sets in,
piercing the horizon
of the sea,
or your soul.

The long-time sailor
now serves the boat
poked into his arm,
and greater vessels
in his mind.

Those were the days
of derring-do —
the "one hand for yourself;
one hand for the ship"
kind of days,
when the sails billowed,
and the sheets tangled,
and you could lose an arm
if you weren't careful.

Ships travel by diesel
or bunker fuel now.
But the wind,
which lost its usefulness,
is still a power
to be

Prompted by Rachel.

~ Bear ~


  1. Rob, this is poignant .. brought tears to my eyes.

    'Those were the days of derring-do' — oh yes!

  2. Oh, Helen! This was meant to be a fond remembrance, not a tear-jerker. But thank you for visiting. I always love your visits, and comments.

  3. I was reminising regarding your profile as I read this poem. For me as stated before, It brings vision! It's telling a story, I hear it and see it as I read alone! You are so gifted! I could see him too!

    1. Sorry for the very late reply. Thanks for sharing your thoughts. They are very helpful and encouraging.

      Blessings and Bear hugs.