Equatorially amiss

Sedov

But ho and up
and hiss your sails
to foreign lands
where fortune hails
and be the choice of land
a blunder
twas for a siren
but that’s no wonder
take the rudder
down a gill
she made you shudder
like no drink will.
Arise and dry
in morning’s sun
Smile, don’t cry
there’s yet more fun.
A scourge, an urge
two sides to face
waves bend
waves break
washing worry
without a trace
ambition blown
against the winds
fate’s rugged rocks
time’s teeth shown
crushing dreams
with death alone.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..