2 NOVEMBER 1991, Page 48

The Old Captain I hear him sometimes pacing The bridge,

a familiar, distracted humming, Like a bee drone. He halts, turns As if whistling up a dog, thinks better Of it. The pacing resumes.

Waves like tin, discarded violins, Play tunes for dead sailors.

Whistling is forbidden. I imagine him, Hands behind his back, tobacco-stained beard Culling air like a motor-mower, And the rowing movements Of his arms as he shoots his cuffs.

The old bugger, I think, drifting Back to sleep, the years between Lost somewhere, as now his steps falter, The sea closing over him like a hairnet.

Alan Ross