She had her day, the old boat.
Laying on her side, far away from sea and tide,
Grass grew between her planks, no one thought
to give her thanks,
For all the work she had done, going out in rain and sun.
Her anchor in the earth held fast, strong winds
came through.
Tore off her mast, up the rusty anchor chain,
The ivy grew to hide her pain. Wild flowers bloomed,
In sun dried ground.
She was first sold for just twelve pound.
Those were the days when painted bright green.
The best fishing boat, that
ever was seen.
Her mast, tall, stained dark, with white sails,
she’d run with the wind. Outrun humpback whales,
dolphins would
play At her bow and her stern.
The skipper was proud Of the money he earned
He would stand, legs braced against the wind.
Hands held fast to the wheel, lest she spin.
Then homeward he’d turn, full of good cheer,
In front of his hearth, down a whiskey
or beer.
The old boat remembered, but knew she was done,
All she could do was now rot in the sun.
I looked at her, I felt her
pain.
If I had the money, she’d sail once again.
But I am not able to work such a deed,
For the skipper is gone now the last of
his breed.
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