Weaver's Point

Deadbeat, the captain stands upon the deck,
Rain slicing at his greatcoat.
His face forlorn of future tidings of hope,
Red hands grasp the helm without feeling.
His breast-pocket buttoned against the elements,
Within, a letter of the greatest moment,
From the softest hand, the hardest heart.

What did he care when he left harbour
For the lights of home now spoiled,
Giving orders in a daze, that routine interrupted
By the changing face of the home front.
Now not a hand left alive to slow his descent
Into the maelstrom of his own making,
Rudder run aground before the breaking on the rocks.

The timbers of his groaning ship long for the deep
That will absolve them of their worldly cares.
An afterlife of barnacled oblivion for them.
Not so the captain, mind still full with his wife,
Slowly losing his grip on reality and the great wheel,
No stars shine tonight to guide his course,
Except the Orion of the mermaids, and the forgotten.