The gloomy sloshing brine
Laps absently at the bow.
The somber waves allow
No light, no shine.
Dim but not darkness,
The sky rests above the mast.
Here the clouds are dear and gast,
On she goes, aimless.
The Eagle, Firebrand,
And Romney,
Gliding through the sea
Hopelessly toward land.
On land raged a battle of wits,
Life was on the line,
Only the ones with the strongest minds,
The eloquent, the mad - the scientists.
They could not save the flock,
The helpless crafts,
From the deadly drafts,
And the ticking clock.
They cried out to dear fate,
In the flashes of light,
Between the waves’ bite,
They saw, but ‘twas too late.
The screams echoed through
The night, the handcraft bow,
Was torn in and out,
The water in the hull grew.
The crew was ripped
From the ship against the rocks,
From the sand and stones
Blood dripped, dripped.
Water and sand tore
Their tender lungs,
And rung
Their raw core.
In the sturdy Firebrand
Twenty -five,
The captain, some crew, were alive.
The rest would never wake again.
Proud Romney, 50-gun,
Of the Royal Navy,
Ended not so lucky,
With a survival rate of one.
And dear old Eagle,
Shredded from starboard,
To port.
Not saving so much as a seagull.
That quiet night,
On the Isles of Scilly
The waters were turned bloody,
And the widows left in plight.
All is not sound
In the world today or ever,
But this, this endeavor,
Is worth a solid frown.
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