Friday, May 31, 2013

Spring Sonnet 8: HMS Mandrake

Dead dead dead as a nickel head, my feet
clop round the marina's green sulfur lake.
Winding past the anchored sailing fleet
my eyes fall on the HMS Mandrake.

Mandrake's sails billowed pouting silver lips
that whisper prayers to the pitiless sun.
Tentacled  wild ropes dance the devil whip
as I continue on my banal morning run.

Gurgle gutturals froth and bubble
from the bow to the brind-beaten baft.
Mandrake's deck covered in seaweed rubble,
on this monstrously mottled sailing craft.

Sweat stung my eyes as my path moved on
blinked at the shimmer and Mandrake was gone.

-By Aurin Squire

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