Capstan

There is a sailor calling me,
ever, always,
towards the sea,

a shade who walks
a rotted deck,
the broken belly
of his wreck,

in the darkness,
fathoms deep,
restless in
a sodden sleep;

There is a sailor calling me,
some buried root
of ancestry,

forgotten or
perhaps ignored,
a scofflaw on
a rusted sword,

a rogue of
dubious career,
who plied his trade
reviled, revered;

There is a sailor calling me,
submerged
in swells of history,

an undertow,
a tidal urge,
to strain against
a rolling surge,

to clench the wheel,
face and fight
a typhoon at
her fuming height;

There is a sailor calling me,
who knows my name,
who says that he

can get a ship,
scare up a crew,
can tell a dead man’s
tale or two,

can anchor in
a quiet bay,
until I’m joined
with him one day;

There is a sailor calling me,
who claims there is
a banyan tree

that spreads above
a hidden plunder,
the spoils of
brigandry and thunder,

abandoned on
a clement shore,
uncharted still
and lost in lore;

There is a sailor calling me,
a siren song
of centuries,

a gale from
a vanished squall,
a hoarse and low
and constant call,

a voice that’s getting
hard to slight,
or blame on tricks
played by the night;

There is a sailor calling me,
ever, always,
towards the sea.