Come Sunday the Priest
They were sailing for Havana or Dominguez
come Sunday the priest would hear their meaty confessions
and in the bazaar, the local eateries would serve pork pies
and some passing merchant would make a doubloon or two
on monkeys and parakeets.
The captain stowed his brief, and the letters marque
under glass beside his copy of Treasure Island
rather fondly he patted the dangling ornament of
Long John Silver which swayed in hurricane season
his heavy boots clodding as he stepped out into muggy daylight.
Ship’s mate still wore his blues, though he’d torn the badges off
his officer’s sword had lost its scabbard some weeks past
offered a pint to his master which was refused without a word
his eyes were cast to splinters shattering down,
from sudden squalls sundering the mizzen mast.
Dodging rigging showering down on decks, heavy woolens
wet with anxiety, he thought mid-command
at least the winds would blow away the heat
and the ship, if they could save a sail or two, the howls
of crow’s nest mates bracing themselves for impact.
They were bound for bells and harbors and pretty girls
some for wives and concubines, some they never asked
on the seas they raised black flags and other signs
but at home each man was respected, a land owner,
a church-goer — some even parsons and governors!
