The Blow

Bleak and sullen turn the roiling skies,
Roaring out in fury as lightning flies,
Lashing the waves and bedazzling eyes,
In livid indignation at Mother Sea's,
Attempted usurpation whilst she heaves,
Frothing fingers at the dodging clouds,
Seeking thus to rend Tempest's shrouds.

Betwixt the warring elements a tiny ship,

Is tossed, her canvas taut, nigh to rip,
All hands scramble, rigging in their grip,
Timbers groan as rushing crewmen shout,
Helm hard over held by two sailors stout,
Aloft straining trucks upon nimble feet,
Fingers loosen, haul and tie the sheets.

Rolling nigh to her beam ends waves batter,
Oak planking, sending much below a'clatter,
Hauling gear, and sea chests alike a'scatter,
Slowly she rights as the agile shroud rats,
Descend through the gale's shrieking blasts,
To begin squaring the decks pounding beneath,
Masts a'quiver in the storm's frightful teeth.

Alas all's tight, lines and gear well secured,
Off watch dash below, the squall to endure,
Working quick, order in the fo'csle to procure,
Soon all is shipshape and dry attire donned,
Steaming mugs of strong tea hungrily palmed,
Eagerly supplied by a beaming, thankful cook,
Whilst cap'n records all in the ship's log book.

"A hard blow!" shouts the mate over waning din,
At the grizzled bosun, demeanor set and grim,
"Aye!" he retorts, "Hard with a westerly spin,
But our cap'n's good and the ship's well manned,
Worse blows we'll best e'er we see the strand."
"To be sure!" agreed the mate, laughing gruff,
"Cap'n, crew, and ship all made of stout stuff!"

Seeing the ship far below shrugging off his best,
Efforts to founder her, Tempest slackens to rest,
Petulant Sea, too, flags, her labors at a crest,
To the south rays of sunlight dapple the swell,
Stoic captain espies it ahead of lookout's yell,
Kestrel and gull cry as Tempest and Sea both lay,
Hard master steals a brief smile heading into day.

Learn more about this author, Clarence Lamberth.
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