Still drenched in sleep, I clamber up on deck—
A waning moon is sneering at the East
With shreds of shadowed cloud about her neck;
Each wave the rearing back of some fell beast.
The dark horizon swelling in unrest,
Lights strung out on the hills, the spoils of Rome
On Boadicea’s nightmare-haunted breast:
Our stern propellers churning spray and foam.
All dawns are false— why trust in those caressed
By sullen moons and rinsed-out pastel skies?
The monstrous Pitons loom to South and West,
Their bristled teeth false beacons in disguise.
What floats may sink! Wise landsmen sail the sea
With ‘one hand for the ship and one for me’!