The Sunken Lightship

It presides
Over our passing
In and out
Of the Bogue Narrows.
We rise
From sea gullies
And watch it sway
To a mindless
Humping of waves.

In soft seas
Its moans
Are more our own.
If I name it
Red Nun of the Narrows,
The pleasure won't last,
For it turns unruly at a whim
And will outlast our coming
And going.

Once, alone,
In wild weather,
I felt
The wallow and topple,
The fit of its color
In close thrashes,
My tongue
Salted and stunned
Into a silence
That burned.

© BOA Editions, Ltd 1990