Three Poems

Pentecost

Standing on the stage, eight
at waists, waiting to lower
the boat to December water,
we saw a shape float

past, eddying east
toward the thinning haze,
the water so bright that our eyes
deceived us, and thought it just

an object of fun.
‘A croc,’ cracked the Aussie
stroke. ‘No, it’s Nessie,’
joked the bow-man,

and we laughed as it lazed
past. Then the riggers glinted,
and I flinched, and saw it: the dented
...