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Last trip round the harbour!
The sailor announces the end of the afternoon.
Grandad would approve –
out on the water, breathing sea air,
catching spray on skin and hair.
Salt water in his veins, not blood,
Nan said.
Or, on another day,
Always down the bloody seafront!
Pushing aside the smell of fish
and the vastness of that water
we paid our money,
expecting a life jacket as well as a seat.
Silently disappointed, we headed out.
The straight route out of the harbour was fine
until Whitby became a postcard.
One minute the waves were rolling over,
offering us their bellies,
the next they were rising solid grey,
lifting us, dropping us down.
They threatened to throw me out,
fill my eyes with seaweed and brine,
send my lover north, my bag west.
My stomach quivered;
I was the wrong kind of petrified.
I wanted to be a breakwater; ancient wood
salted over time,
aged, steadfast.
The old lifeboat was a fairground pirate ship
and I was clinging on:
fixing my smile,
picturing a hammock
and an Arctic Convoy Star.
Sue Finch 