CALL ME ISHMAEL
Posted: Wed Nov 14, 2018 11:09 am
CALL ME ISHMAEL … Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet
An oily reflection of the sun
mirrored on the cold turquoise water
the sea swell, rocked the boat sluggishly
the slop seeming unnoticed
by the man poised in the bow
arm aloft – harpoon at the ready scenting the breeze
for that whiff of fish
that escapes when whales surface and blow.
Suddenly turmoil. Water boils around the boat
flocks of seagulls screech and circle
and at the stern
the white whale spy hops
and then dives deep, displacing the water
with a mighty slap from his flukes
that reverberates like a whip-crack
from the blue-white icy sides of nearby bergs.
Caught out, the men man the oars
and pull steadily –
on the hunt again.
An oily reflection of the sun
mirrored on the cold turquoise water
the sea swell, rocked the boat sluggishly
the slop seeming unnoticed
by the man poised in the bow
arm aloft – harpoon at the ready scenting the breeze
for that whiff of fish
that escapes when whales surface and blow.
Suddenly turmoil. Water boils around the boat
flocks of seagulls screech and circle
and at the stern
the white whale spy hops
and then dives deep, displacing the water
with a mighty slap from his flukes
that reverberates like a whip-crack
from the blue-white icy sides of nearby bergs.
Caught out, the men man the oars
and pull steadily –
on the hunt again.