Afloat
Moored to the wall my little boat
Sits on the harbour bed
Inert, forlorn;
Like some outworn
And shabby garment shed,
Relic of glories past in time remote.
What though the river sea-ward run
Beside its leaning hull?
It is unmoved,
A thing unloved,
No more by oar and scull
Urged through the billows in the wind and rain.
It cannot know, my little boat,
What we know – that the tide
Will softly steal
And lift the keel
Till it will proudly ride
Graceful, assured, alive, because afloat !
Weekly Times 17.2.61