At my station, the transom seat
my mind is all a wonder of the night
and wandering, yet again.
Thirty three days at sea.
thirty three years she was with me.
she ghosts along on starboard track
with full press of sail, forever moving.
Divulging courses, now these seven years,
how come she is on the transom seat now,
The night watch never ends.
yes far too much time for thinking.
my past is chasing up the
bubbling wake, with lights of
phosphorescence for my eyes to see.
Yet my heart is black and void.
No that’s no true.
The firmaments above, with it’s
million lights still do pierce my inner man.
I held the other vessel through years.
unique inner beauty, a special soul
which only I have seen.
the longest tack, twenty six
years apart, since I held the rose.
Why was I so oblivious
of the thorns way back then
that prick my mind now, so sharp
down the years.
Too much time to think
is it poison, at four bells
on the transom seat?
Ah! the moon has risen now
I should feel brighter but why is
she walking down the simmering lace,
the reflections of moonlight from
wave to face, now all dissolves,
I can not see a thing. These sights
at night have made me cry again.
They say time is a healer but
it’s not true-least not at night,
at sea, where only God and me,
knows the agony, of the transom seat.
– Ronald A.D Sharp Jr.