Moored to the wall my little boat
Sits on the harbour bed
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