Number Nine

 

Number Nine

 

I was a lad on Lake Windermere,

Sitting in my cap and school-boy blazer

At the wheel of a rented motorboat.

It had no name,

Just a painted number nine on the prow.

 

My parents gave an encouraging wave

As I slipped away from the wooden dock

Into the fray, master of my ship.

In the background, a loudspeaker growled,

Number two, your time is up!

 

Its message was almost lost

Amid the roar of raging gunfire,

And shouts of ‘prepare to repel boarders’.

No worries! It wasn't meant for me.

There was plenty of playtime left.

 

Then, a hail of ruinous iron ripped through the hull.

I looked back to the dock for reassurance,

But it was gone.

Engulfed in the sulphurous smoke

Of a black-powder broadside.

 

Above, the sails are rent and ragged.

The helm indifferent to all efforts.

Now, with unseen currents setting the course,

There is only drifting,

And waiting for the loudspeaker. 

John Walter Taylor 

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revised 26 January 2024