LEIFIAD

 

 

They dug the oiled oars in the level bay,

Shot through the cove down the winding way

To the widening mouth and the boundless sea,

Past the flint portals, past the eyrie,

Past the high osprey with her kill,

A dangling sea-trout twitching still

In death above the rippling blue.

They passed the lee, and the whitecaps grew

Till salt stood on their cheeks. Then they

Hoist sail, stacked oars, and turned away

Their faces, sad in their pride of heart;

As brides look back once, then depart

From house, to home, they sought the sea.

 

How often near-catastrophe

Poured nightmares on their soggy dreams,

In crumpled sleep on cracking beams,

We know not. How their spirits fell

As sea-birds resting on the swells

Grew few, then vanished, we know not.

How many days the curved keel shot

Ahead with strong wind at their back,

Imprinting their faint fading track;

How many days they pulled the oars

Through doldrums past all hope of shores,

We know not -- for the Bard, no doubt

He died of scurvy third day out. . . .

-- Gerald Grow (1967)

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