Rosemary Nissen-Wade #27: Once, on a 16-foot Trailer-Sailor

Once, on a 16-foot Trailer-Sailor

It was Broome to Darwin –

but we skipped 

part of the Sound,

and cut across

the top of the Gulf.

Not enough time

to hug and explore

those long, intricate shores.

It was 40 degrees plus 

(Celsius); only warm salt water 

to tip on ourselves 

from a bucket dipped over the side.

Fresh was rationed for drinking –

couldn't always find

pool or stream  

up the inlets.

It was clear nights 

lounging on deck;

uncountable stars

crowding the vast black dome overhead;

and one tiny, quick white satellite.

It was crocodiles sunning.

Waterfalls. Four-storey tides.

Beach sand inland, impossibly high.

Responding to a prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads', to write on sailing in 100 words max (excluding title).

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #22: Goodbye Muhammad

Goodbye Muhammad

Impossible

that death should finally KO

The Greatest.

We thought he’d be here

always – older and slower, yes,

but still with that smile

lurking in his eyes.

But he taught us

nothing is impossible.

He said that. He showed us,

living his life

on his own terms.

Ah, but death 

sets its own terms too.

Ali is already

two and a half weeks gone,

with his dancing feet 

and his stinging fists,

his wicked words

and his beauty …

his proud head, even in age.

The people of his home

say they remember 

a child who never gave up,

they remember the young hero,

and most of all they recall

the private years 

of a kind, wise old man.

The early dark comes down.

It’s winter solstice here.

We are already a little past

full moon. Brightness

waxes and wanes,

but the good 

don’t always die young.

Written for the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. We were asked if we had written anything on the passing of Muhammad Ali. I hadn't – I thought Gail Hennessy's tribute said it perfectly, and far more economically than this – but, since we were invited....

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #20: The Sisters, Death and Night

The Sisters, Death and Night

Those

sisters,

Death and Night,

aren't really twins –

though people assume

they mirror each other.

Both can be sweet or bitter,

soft, or impenetrably dense.

But Night always dresses in darkness.
Death – do notice! – is enfolded in light.

Written for the Sunday Mini-Challenge at 'imaginary garden with real toads', for a poem of 10 lines maximum. 
The subject of the title, suggested as optional, caught my imagination.