The Last Ship
(Alfred Wallis, 1855-1942)
When they drove him to the workhouse, surf in the sky disturbed its blue.
He creaked and rolled like a ship whose wheel had been lashed and then a flea danced some wild hornpipe on his shoes.
Later, they collected his paints and ordered more from the chandler in the Digey, heard his complaints and took him sketchbooks. He'd glower and recall he'd trusted them, once.
And still he'd ponder the Devil upstairs and how Duty Mighty gave instructions in the dark. All day he drew the ships that sailed to other places, beyond their call.
And he grew his hair, painted death and growled to himself in corners, hung words round his life like a wreath till the last ship came without noise, its sails filled with his bristly breath.
Ian Caws
Previous page
