Three Poems

Diving into the Wreck

You can’t translate its planks
                                          or say
exactly what its split mast means.

Only, say only its rigging’s green,
its deck a carpet squirming weeds,

lisp grasses, fish unseen.
                                There too,
a whisper buffeted,

                    a coffer buried,

embroiled in sand and ancient
tynne – spoils scattered on soft

rock surfaces. It’s true, too, this ship

was Flanders-bound, and held old
stores of muscadel and metheglin.

But any further, and the further
we go in, its shape recedes, lies
...