Colin F. Jones

THE BOAT

Upon the sea at night with gentle wave
The salt air in your face that cools your brow
Enhances all your senses that do crave
The freedom that flows white across the bow.
Flying fish splash down in scattered groups.
Silver holes they make in dark green wakes;
Flapping in the wind where king fish shoot
With illuminated patterns through the deeper breaks.
And off to port, the harbour lights reflect
Made hazy in the tender close of mists
That drape their silken folds along the deck
Where only hidden shadows do resist.
And here, God’s hand upon your rudder steers
Your little boat away from all your fears.