We steam for safety,
grey walls of water crash
across the bows.
Two hundred souls,
crammed inside a metal skin,
living in one another’s
stink.
Puking,
mewling,
like infants
in need of milk,
we stagger along storm-battered decks,
iron corrodes under foot.
Ripped and clawed by howling winds,
chapped by the razors
of salt’s spray,
clutching at bulkheads,
praying for storm’s eye.
Lightning forks,
rain lashes ashen skin,
woollen coats hang heavy,
drenched and miserable we wish
for somewhere,
anywhere,
else.
Out there,
running silently
in the inky depths,
they lurk.
Enemy souls,
wrapped in pressurised steel,
watching,
waiting
to release their deadly cargo.
We steam through the night,
Storm-tossed,
afraid,
praying for the morning’s light.