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This poem is taken from PN Review 167, Volume 32 Number 3, January - February 2006.

The Saint of Tusker Rock Robert Minhinnick


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.

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