The cold African winds batter my face

with red dust as the sound

of dead memories whistle

through the forest of boats

and rich men’s yachts and cruisers

named in some Channel Island port

or Black Sea safe haven

and the ghostly sound

rumbles in the Three Cities’ harbour

as the age old Inquisitor looks on

in distaste.

 

The yacht’s only movement,

the bobble on the aloof and frosty stared

sea, up and down in quarter back tussle,

the owners drinking green tea