Tall ship on the Solent. Red Funnel Ferry to Isle of Wight.
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The call of the sea
is a call that is wild
Where tall ships
dipping flanks cut
a wide furrow,
Steered by men with
a destiny and a star
From out of the dark depths of
a coal black night,
An unfettered wind unleashed
its fury, whipping the waves
into a frenzy;
Storm driven rain stung like
Against a ravenous sea
harbour defences trembled,
Heaving mountains of green
Foam crested billows roller
Along curved man made concrete
Monolithic water spouts of foam
laden fury erupted high into the
night borne air.
At the height of the storm
heavy seas pounded their might,
Battering a long line of coastal
The gulls cry like the blowing
wind calls free,
Red Falcon, wetting her flanks,
heads out to sea;
This ship of the Red Funnel ploughs
a straight furrow to the deeps,
For ‘tis a destiny with the Isle Of Whight
and Cowes she must keep.
To port striding the Solent, a three
masted queen of the sea under a Belgian
flag, Red Falcon passes,
The Belgian’s sails furled as her smoke
stack to her wake chatters;
Out on the Solent,Masefield and his
call to the sea is here,
For a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
is a call that is clear.
The waves tell me a story of far
away places as I repose on a
pebble strewn beach,
And the spirits of the wind tell
of their wandering ways that is
theirs to preach.
Pied Pipers of the channel guide
big ships a safe course to keep,
Leaving the harbour merchantmen
dream of wide open spaces as their
prows plough the crests to the deeps.
Peter Morriss 06.06.2000
SEA WIND (Wells-Next-The Sea)
An angry sea breaks through
a blanket of mist,
The wind, a whetted knife cuts
with cold persist;
In the channel boats strain at
their anchor against the run
of the sea,
Sheltering from the storm boats
lay huddled against the quay.
Seabird flocks rest on the
marshes sparse cover,
Riding it out till the
long blow is over.
Peter Morriss 14.09.94