Robert Verdon, #149, drunken sailor

entirely a toffee wrapper, sad as a hornpipe,

through which a star shines through

is my soul, moonlight sliding down

an icy mast in the dead of winter,

south wind weeping all around,

around, around, my heart a carved

wooden ship run aground, fastened

now to a floe, early in the morning,

nowhere to go.