Two-toned timber, cracked and caulked
upon water, weighing heavy
as strides cause tsunamis
to flee your bow.
You are long-tailed and laden low
with laboured words carried as cargo
in a hull dark as the pitch
potted to protect it.
The rhythmic stutter of engine splutter
frightens fish from shadows
to shelter in the dun-coloured
depths away from you.
You drop anchor before me, bow now
sluggish in the silty slur and your
word-hoard hauled from hull is dumped
like fish fresh from the trawl.
They lie limp and listless between us,
whitebait words losing breath and beating less
whilst you fend off and slink slowly away
like the Mary Celeste.