ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

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.

Hi Maureen

Just starting to catch up on posts I missed while away over the last couple of months. I really like this poem - of course it is reminiscent of Moby Dick, but apart from that, I can smell the salt spray when I read it!

I cheered for the escaped whale, too!

Cheers
Shelley

They are game, chasing whales in a rowing whale boat close by the icebergs.

If they had women in the boat would women man the oars.

A tad tardy with my response but I am delighted you liked this Shelley - thank you

They were game Neville but that is what they did Of course they would Neville - women have manned up to lots of things over the centuries and they wouldn' t be wailing about it either