She'd had her day, The old boat.
Laying on her side, far away from sea and tide.
Grass grew between her planks.
No one thought to give her thanks,
For all the work she had done.
Going out in rain and sun.
Her anchor in the earth held fast.
Strong winds came through, tore off her mast.
And up the rusty anchor chain
the ivy grew to hide her pain.
Wild flowers bloomed in sun dried ground.
She was first sold, for just twelve pound.
Those were the days when painted bright green.
The best fishing boat that ever was seen.
Her mast, tall, stained dark, with white sails.
She'd run with the wind, outrun humpback whales.
Dolphin's would play at her bow and her stern.
The skipper was proud of the money he earned.
He'd stand, legs braced against the wind.
Hands held fast to the wheel lest she spin.
Then homeward he'd turn, full of good cheer.
In front of his hearth, down a whiskey or beer.
The old boat remembered, but knew she was done.
All she could do now, was rot in the sun.
I looked at her, I felt her pain.
If I had the money she'd sail once again.
But I am not able to work such a deed.
for the skipper is gone now, the last of his breed.
I wrote this when living in Tasmania, saw this old boat laying in someones back garden and this is what came out of it.