The Call

The sea is calling, always calling

Even when the sailor has long left voyaging behind.

The sea calls, ever calls,

Over the noise of this sometimes dreadful life.

To sail away , to leave this life behind,

But to where?

That is what adds to the thrill.

Let the voyage be long or short,

Let the oceans be calm or fierce,

In the urge to sail away,

Lies man's eternal quest

For something new.

Why oh why does man always strive after the new

When accepting the present would save a lot of heart ache.

It has long been a mystery to me but,

More than in any other profession,

The sea offers a greater chance to satisfy this need.

The sailor never arrives

Because each new port is a stepping stone to the next

And on to the next

Until the nomadic lifestyle grows too much.

It maybe that the sailor observes other people

Settling into a pattern of life which brings rewards

Such things as family and home,

Anchored to other views of living

Rather than constantly on the move.

So the sailor leaves the sea

And puts down roots.

Or does he?

The sound of a seagull screaming ,

The wind moaning around the roof of his house

The sound of waves lapping on the shore

Will awaken in the hidden recesses of his mind

The longing to feel the excitement once more

As the ship goes silent,

Ready to leave for the sea.

The Docks

The Docks

Water glistens below the bright flower beds

Tall white buildings reflected shapes shimmering

In sepia coloured liquid lapping redundant quays

Rope fenders still clinging to the concrete walls

Iron rails sunk into the tarmac beside the quay edge

Unnoticed now by all but a handful of men.

Voices echo through the abandonned cranes

Laughing, shouting, crying, arguing

As children play in the shadows of their homes

Unmindful of the history close by.

Once, years before in this very place

Deeper voices shouted, swore, laughed and moaned

Broad backs and strong arms pushed and heaved

Cranes banged, whined, moved and whirled

Cargo loading for distant exotic unkown places

Names on the case and the checkers’ sheets

Bales, boxes, bundles, cases and casks

Discharged for the market down the road.

Dynamic energy spilt for the demands of trade.

Now faded into folk lore, remembered by few.

Flats gardens and living people in their place.

In the sky above, a lone seagull cries

Reminded of the sounds of the docks and

Shades of long lost ships tied to bollards and

The ghostly wail of a ships whistle in the mist

Never to return.