Maelstrom

Wind-borne fury, mainsail spilling
shrieking air as the deck heaves
within inches of emerald rage.
Lightning cutlasses slash the air,
while raindrops become rapiers in the wind.
Bellowed commands are lost in the howling gale.
Waves ram the ship, pounding sledges,
writhe like huge green serpents,
pulse beneath her -- the bursting heart of the deep.
Toy ship tossed, driven against the set of the rudder,
Sea Witch shudders, her decks awash with slippery brine.

The Captain's voice is blown away.
"What's that, sir?  Hard aport?"
His frantic gestures mean nothing to the helmsman
choking on brine, and the bile of fear.
There are rocks to port, to starboard;
the frothing sea a murderous threat
as it dances along the hungry maw of dangerous narrows.
Something is amiss.  Death impends:
a suffocating blanket in the air.

Sea Witch, yanked through the narrows,
spins like a child's top.
Tortured timber shrieks,
amid low, sucking moans that pull at the souls of men.
"Maelstrom!"
There is naught to see but the white of his eyes, as
the Captain screeches the word.  Then he is gone,
the crashing mainsail taking him into the deep.
Sailors strain their bulging muscles in a frantic attempt to spill the sails,
ripping canvas and thundering timbers conceal their screams.
Waves rear in mountainous green and sweep the deck clean.
Sea Witch heels over, and with a sigh slips beneath the waves.

They say, in the chilling fog of northern seas,
the dead set sail again upon the Sea Witch;
her bell echoes in the murky stillness,
till the blood of sailors runs cold with fear.
But, 'tis just a rumor, isn't it?

Isn't it?

Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 98