Right here
the keel’s wedge was driven;
here, where the moorlands
were riven with light, mark now
the grooves of its graving,
prowing the limestone and loam.
Still the bark
lies buried here, wrecked
on the bulwark of bracken,
gunwales engulfed now by gorse.
Craft of our foundered fathers,
landlocked from lippers and foam.
A reliquary
of dying arts, reckoned
unsuited for service, stones
still circle the vacant helm,
a vast hull still hollows
the barrow.
Still, though
rafters are bare, let us repair
to these ruins, make of this ramshackle
ship-shape a home.
Come here,
castaways, as stewards,
stubbornly setting the thwart-boards
in line.
Rig up your staves
for a scaffold; kneel down
where speedwells aspire.
spurning back
with faces leeward, shore up
the shanties and sea-words;
chant response to the guttering
stars.
Pray, though
pruning prevails now, saplings
may steeple this clearing with spars,
main-mast emerge from the mire.
