by Thomas Howard Elliot

Created on: February 24, 2008

There is a cove,
A sheltered Bay,
To where, they say,
All the weathered fishermen
Know the way.

I once requested a tour,
Only to be told,
That by years, I was not yet old.
That someday I may learn the way,
Though it may be to feel its waters' cold.

I did not understand why,
All those who knew the course,
Speak of it only in a hushed voice.
As though they fear its very name,
And why none would venture there by choice.

Many years after I'd heard its name
I was taken to this bay of fame
For my actions on land and sea
The captain took me round to the lee.
Inside an iron crab box I was laid
And told for my crimes my debts now paid

And soon I felt the waters' cold
Of this cove that I'd been told.
For me they said no words,
My soul is now interred,
This sheltered bay,
To where, they say,
All the weathered fishermen
Know the way.

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