Sweet Marina



A wind breathed a breathless

stream taking me away

from the weather-worn shore.

My rood mast bent under the weight

of the drum-taut sails and bled

sweat like slaves in a deep-south cotton field.

My hand sought the tiller toughened

by the solid swell under my cleaving keel

as I followed my lover’s wake

these twelve months passed.


A tired sun shrank in the fierce face

of a waxing moon and soon

came the rain.

The breathless breeze appeased

the charcoal weight of sodden vapour.

The drum-skin rattled

the rood to its roots.

Black-green mountains rose,

their tongues of melted ice thundered like

God’s wrath

upon my dripping decks.

The galley vomited its belly-full onto

the washed boards where my bunk once hung.


erupted into the freezing rain

where a sturdy mast once stood.

A ghost-white apparition flapped before my horizon,

obscuring the devastating wall

that took my vessel away.


Alone in the ice-tea swell in the saucer of this menacing sea,

I drifted on the sound of wandering waves and tireless tides.

The blood-white snow had given my cocoon its teeth

and I waited in the wake of the storm for either salvation,

or absolution.


Then, in the deepest calm in the darkest hour

before the frigid dawn, she thundered

through the waves as lightning sunders night.

A calm wind sucked the living movement

from her lank sails but her lovers

pulled on her oars

dashing the tepid ice melt of millennia

passed her flanks.

No lightning caressed her cheeks, no wound

scarred her beautiful feline form as she carved

white waves before her.

The wailing of her wake rolled

over me with the beat

of rhythmic rowing running towards me.

The bowed bow bore down and sent me under

to my mother’s wet womb

where I wondered whether now

my time had come to visit a flotsam-laden sepulchre,

and meet once more, one last time,

my lover long lost to this sea’s

ice-water hostel.


O, to see those sweet neat eyes crying sleep

through the mists of morning,

to taste the wine of long time love,

to feel her warmth in that frozen desert of death.


The inverted groyne twisted my loins

but tangled lines of devastation ran

through me like a sweet summer breeze

on Hampstead Heath,

its teeth slow and minimal in their reach,

and I, torn from the darkness of doom,

floundered in a weary wake as a young sun smiled

at the horizon.

And my blood, chilled by the chilling swell, raced

through my stone-hard muscles harassed

by a heart hectored by an image of wonder.


A boat, a boat, small but dry on Homer’s wine-dark sea

slipped towards me. An angelic image, white in contrast

to the black, the green and the mauve, shone

in my saline swollen eyes.


I slumped under the gunwales

spitting water, dripping wet, slipping on wooden slats,

my breath heavy, my heart leaden beating a drum

taut by tension.

The boat, my saviour, bobbed in gentle sway

as I drifted away.

A mature sun kissed my brow as a mother

wakes a sleeping son, and sore spheres scanned

the drying vessel in the midst of rolling wet.

Again, I was alone

in that world of watery waves.

My angle was not flesh.


Time passed on its solemn ride home

leaving much to be recalled

when a coast guard cruiser hailed me.

They wondered at the boat

I’d found since my sails possessed none and the stern name

glaring out, “Sweet Marina”, was the one carried

by my lover’s sturdy vessel

that had foundered

these twelve months passed.


Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15 or

at https://www.facebook.com/Malek-Montag-Author;


Image from: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/20/39/e5/2039e5bc6bf2123601b60b1d8a510db9.jpg


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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