Between night and day lies a slate sea
with only cheap whiskey
to ease the passage towards dawn.
Seven times we listed to starboard
until on the eighth I went over,
dashing my head amid the flotsam
of my ruined work.
Beached in the silver of the new day
I slept the sleep of kings,
dreaming of dark eyes and of no awakening.
Tonight we set sail again,
strapping ourselves to the mast.
For there be sirens.
[I was probably as drunk as Dylan Thomas when I wrote this – there the similarity ends!]