After Dylan Thomas
On moonless nights with the world,
dripping in Davy-darkness, bible-blackness,
a galleon comes close to being ript asunder.
The old boy knows the wreckers
who want to best him and his men.
His brethren-sailors with
hushed breaths and blind as moles,
wade into the shallows,
lugging brandy, wine and gin.
Their stumbling mocked
by whitecap breakers crashing ashore,
sending spray snatching at barrels on backs
and any bare skin, brine strips to skeleton
whilst the wind tub-thumps “this is a sin.”
High in the starless sky,
shivering in the crow’s nest,
the watchman sees something shadowy,
stretching towards them.
