In the cold winter of nineteen-seventeen
I trudged to and fro
The shipyard and home again
Trapped below the high arch
Of Watchful,frail and sickly pines

Father ails
As I hobble through sheets of white
Through blistering miles
Frozen pastures and hollow desolation

Smoke stacks billow into December skies
Amidst my frigid hours
My chattering bones
And the tremors beneath my hide

Still the harbors chime
Despite the nibbling frosts
The roving ships
Groan on, weighed down by their heavy burdens

Thievery wields me
Like a sly bandit’s dagger
The daily toil
My father unknowingly hails

Homeward I trot
Totting jagged and brimful satchels
In my slow weave
I carve through the dormant backwoods
Untouched through the now silenced marshes
Swept over by the cold
And sacked by the solstice of bitter affection

Yet I find home
Grave and maimed
The threshold torn open
And strangled by the whirling elements

This hour
I found my lonesome forebear
No longer stirring
Bereft of all earthly wishes

“Sleep well dear father”
“My most heinous craft rests with you”