Port of Call By Patrick Henry

Sailor home from the sea, soldier back from the war, Who are you? This has never been told To those meant to be nearest, or even yourself Through wild years playing your part round the world. Tinker, rover, soldier, sailor: all set deep in your Northern race; No rich man, thief or beggar, you could be the perfect spy, Secret orders your brief in harsh times under fire. Peacetime came but your conflicts never pass by. Tall as a ship's figurehead one day he'll return, A bad penny or a stormy day he'd call himself: Light relief sparse in vast presence he weighs in To harbour deep hard tasks through the cleft of waves.

Once moored ashore: decks, gear, himself scrubbed off, He hits dockside bars where sharp talk glints keen as firelight; Then moves up steep streets, each corner pub a chance dive To test the waters: who took a big catch or lost out last night? At inns named for boats, Lancaster, Dolphin, which once had called, He tells of tough trips, minesweeping near here the worst. Enemy craft ringed the bay then fired and shelled The castle, the port, our homes; but missed our pubs thank Christ. Close to home that time war broke on the doorstep, Meant stress on times abroad where dangers always rise. In smoke rooms spinning stories from upturned seas and lands. The wonder he survived and the need to wander gleams in his eyes.

Copyright ©2005  Patrick Henry

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