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