Ships

He bought two pictures of ships,

old prints

of clippers cutting proudly

through the waves.

He loved their spirit of adventure,

the sense they gave

of proudly setting out.

 

The jaunty brine  

chopped briskly round their prows.

And see, the breeze,

it fluttered their brave pennants.  

The sails stuck out their chests,

foraging forward

to seek what the world had to offer.

 

The first

he hung above his bed

so that vessels and voyages

might fill his dreams,

sailing him nightly

away from his mundane world.

 

The second

he hung by his desk

to prompt his mind

to make journeys

his body no longer would,

to stir himself

to spin stories and songs

that went out all across

the varied world.

 

There must have been a third,

though gone astray.

Yet he was sure

that somewhere in a shop

or dusty attic

or maybe on a drab and sombre wall

in some neglected room

it hung unnoticed.

 

Its ship lay moored,

he guessed.

It swung at anchor

in a tropic bay

with sails furled

while all the crew were resting.

Some had gone ashore

where islanders brought fruit

with friendly greetings.

 

It could be paradise,

this verdant isle.

The very bay itself

described a smile.

And Nature offered pleasures

to the senses.

 

The foliage was lush,

so rich, profuse,

spilling abundant fruits.

Exotic birds

trilled brightly coloured music.

 

And rising from the forest,  

was a hill,

where, if you’d climb,

you’d see to the horizon,

and feel a breeze to cool  

your weathered face,

erasing cares and sorrows,

soothing troubles

and easing you to peace and calm  

at last.