"CLIPPER"
Hull down on horizon,
Masts straining,
Full wind,
Sails complaining
Stretch of canvas,
Stays singing
Glorious speed,
Perfection in sail taking the lead
Bright blue sky,
Golden sun,
See this ship fly
Such beauty shouts aloud,
The ship like a flying cloud
Perfect harmony
Of ship, man and sea
Snow white sails bleached by salt and sun,
Homeward bound with crates of tea
The race is on, winding whipping through,
day and night pushing on,
first one home,
prizes and accolades too
For six weeks of strain
On ship and man,
Round the horn
Through blinding rain
Tattered and ripped sails quickly mended,
Rain soaked sailors to be commended
For the ultimate prize is skill,
A sailors worth
Competing all the way until,
The ends of the earth
Six weeks of constant wet,
Numbed fingers, broken bones set.
Watches taken
To arrive at last in calm water,
Hoots of joy,
men did not falter
Reef in sails,
Drop anchor,
Tired splendor
Racing ship, quiet and still,
Earned its rest.
Men ashore,
Passed the test.
Poem ©2006 -- MATTHEW BRACKLEY
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