Dawn Watson

Two poems

The Shipping Forecast

I am sinking too far from the inch-high lighthouse
sweeping Malin Head with its tiny beam.

This boat is scuppered, to be terribly frank.
It’s lit up by lightning

just beyond the box grey of Banba’s Crown.
Wild spray like eiderdown

rat-a-tats the teak helm wheel
as I straddle the extended bowsprit’s jibboom—

anthracite then white in the Morse light.
The weird sea fondles the fo’c’sle

as mackerel canoodle in the black-green soup
like reverse jackdaws leaked beyond their clattering

and silenced by thunder. From the shore
you might see my whale oil lamp

dance on the horizon; its small, yellow fire
woofed higher as the stern slips under.


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