An anchor, flukes buried In the alluvial mud
of the estuary, its rusted chain leads below
to where the great ship settles into the clay
Full forty fathoms of iron links leads down
to the wreck, upright there on the bottom .
Neither foeman’s roaring guns sent her there
in fire and smoke to the cold sea bottom:
Nor did a howling wind leave her stricken upon
the lee shore. Just times study tariff and
The sea’s constant rage. Prometheus bound.
derelict, abandoned To the mercy of the sea.
Sometimes dragging anchor, sometimes aground,
Held to the bar by the bar’s sand until last
in a southwest gale a seam opened
the sea came in and she sank for good and all.