Wynyard Sailor

Ray Mathew

 

Sailor, we all stare at you.

Not because we are laughing;

nor that we envy

the bottle on your hip

(beer as we know, should be cold)

and that girl with her grip

monkey-tight in your pocket

(better the blondes that grow old).

 

Sailor, we all stare at you.

Not because we are laughing,

although your wide trousers

go flippity-flap

(we have worn clothes as odd)

and if your hat

makes a sailor suit boy of you-

they say it’s the young who are god.

 

Sailor, we all stare at you,

because you are mystery:

one who has walked

on the dark of the green,

while we were afraid to be drowned;

one who has been

with the seas of great silence,

and now touches ground.

 

Sailor, we all stare at you,

because death has been under you;

days have been seas;

you have cast off from land,

and now you’ve no home.

While we who have manned

this old coffin earth

have never, will never

face death having known.