This poem is taken from PN Review 167, Volume 32 Number 3, January - February 2006.
The Saint of Tusker RockI
I served the surf.
I suffered it.
A saviour, I thought,
a form in the foam,
some message that was
mine and meant for me.
What arrived was a ship
whose men spoke like gulls,
not bothered about gods, only the eel
they saw in my smokery,
a conger black and
gold and grinning on its
gallows. Strong meat,
but in their firelight we were
souls together sharing
a cup, safe for a night
and sure, at least, of that.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 285 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 285 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
