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Waiting For The Boat
The townspeople cough nervously,
Avoiding your eye.
They repair their damaged homes,
Under the storm washed sky.
But the huddle of women.
Remain on the cliff.
Waiting for the boat.
She’s a well found vessel.
Nothing but the best.
The captain was well versed.
In the moods of the tempest.
But the huddled women.
Remain on the cliff.
Waiting for the boat
Night falls, but not hope.
They may have out-run the gale.
They’ll be laughing and drinking Akvavit,
Somewhere in Norway.
In every window a candle.
But the huddle of women,
Stand now on the quay,
Waiting for the boat.
Submarine war? spy ship?
Governmental indifference.
Russian capture? Snagged gear?
Twenty nine years of silence.
The Gaul, when found,
With her hatches open,
Had not been fishing,
Helm hard over,
She lay on the bed of the Barents sea.
The huddle of women,
Much smaller now,
Are still waiting for that boat.
