He sought meaning where a peaceful sea turned grey
and a storm-swept brig leaned black against the sky.
Two broken crewmen stooping, rising, falling
bent to the pump again in sight of rescue
before the swell could take them gently down.
Of another loss this wreck became a symbol,
Conrad’s youth subsided in the ocean
at a point where symbols cease to symbolize,
where colour fades to black and white and grey,
accepted by the cruel, immense and tender
playful, treacherous, indifferent, furious sea.
He recalled that impulsive time in boyhood,
on a warm night with his hand upon the tiller
when he’d joyfully pursued a steady course
along the gleaming furrow of the moon,
as yet unknowing of a truth profound, more fell
than hunger, anguish or the alluring sea.
When young he’d beautified the ocean
whose bass notes answered clear the piping wind,
but new meanings came in echoes from an eddy,
new horizons formed a reflex in his mirror,
as he listened to the voice of wind and water,
in that gentle swell which took the black brig down.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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