The creak of joints, like timbers strained, recalls my youth in canvas bold,
When Solent’s tide I dared and claimed, in gaff-rigged hull of oak and gold.
We hauled her west on morning's breath, where Needles cleave the chalk-white lee,
And ploughed through spray with joy and death both dancing in the open sea.
Old hands aloft, young blood below, we chased the western star to fade,
Beyond the bay, past Finistère, where winds are sharp and legends laid.
Cape Trafalgar loomed from the mist, where thunder once made Britons kings,
And Nelson’s soul, in cannon’s hiss, still rides upon the seabird’s wings.
I tipped my cap and kept the helm, where blood and oak once dared the gale,
A pilgrim through that haunted realm, I watched the past rise in our sail.
Each reef we struck, each rope we coiled, seemed touched by those who’d gone before,
Their echoes ringing in the spars, their courage stitched in naval lore.
Through Pillars vast we sailed in awe, where Hercules in stone still stands,
The strait's deep voice, half myth, half law, did whisper truths to weathered hands.
We trimmed the sail, we watched the stars, the moon our log, the tide our friend,
And Gibraltar rose, like some old scar that marked where sea and empire blend.
There, nestled safe from Neptune’s mood, we stitched our sails and made whole the mast,
Admired the Rock, its lion’s pride, a sentinel from ages past.
O time, thou tide that wears us thin, yet leaves the heart’s red pennant whole,
Thy canvas flees the mast within, but stirs the compass of the soul.
Each rivet of that cutter’s hull now beats within this weathered chest,
And though my limbs grow frail and dull, the voyage stirs, unresting, blessed.
I dream by firelight's mimic flame, of salt and tar and starlit foam,
Of anchors weighed, of sails reclaimed, and winds that whisper, “Come back home.”
So mark it well, ye younger crew, who chase the wake of distant shores,
There’s glory not in flags anew, but in the hand that heaves and oars.
The age may claim the flesh and bone, yet leaves the chart upon the wall,
Where memory’s tide shall rise alone, and bid the sea return its call.
And when I pass, let no man grieve, just set my course by stars once known,
From Solent’s breast to Trafalgar, and thence through Heaven’s port, sail home.
(By John Shenton)