Submitted: May 23, 2011

Some poetry that I wrote many years ago while living in St. John's. Very many thanks for the wonderful Downhome magazine, which I receive monthly - my sister (who lives in St. John's) kindly subscribes to it for me.
 

The Good Ship Matthew

By R.A. (Mick) Ford

The King outlined his orders,
to the men for whom he’d sent,
Decreed they take a ship to search,
the north and occident,
and take in their possession,
some islands for the throne,
in far off seas still unexplored,
where nothing yet was known.
A ship was duly fitted out,
commissioned with a crew,
of hand picked men – the sea their blood,
and they called the ship Matthew.
The wind was fair with the weather fine,
and the galley well supplied,
as they cast her off with spirits high,
on the peak of a turning tide,
and the gentle slap of the channel waves,
as they clawed at the August bow,
was the merry call of the sea to those,
who watched from the wooden prow.
As the sight of the land and the homes they loved,
fell away to the stern of the ship,
there wasn’t a man who’d have stayed behind,
or missed his place on the trip.
The southern shore of Ireland passed,
in the wake of a blessed breeze,
which took the ship to the latitude,
of fifty four degrees,
then they altered course to the west of north,
where they’d never sailed before,
and they sailed by the sun as they’d often done,
then like men they sailed some more.
And they sailed and sighted nothing,
with their water running low,
then the weather turned against them,

2

and the wind began to blow,
from a steady breeze on an easy sea,
it gathered in its force,
and the crewmen fought to take in sail’,
as it blew them from their course,
and the sea grew bold and the waves rose high,
like an angry rampant foe,
and the lightning flashed as it unleashed power,
with an eerie piercing glow.
As shimmers ran along the ship,
and tremors up the mast,
she wallowed in the frothy swell,
of water running fast,
and the sea was so tormented,
the fishes fled in fright,
to the stillness of the seabed,
in their own eternal right.
The storm raged high above them,
till it could rage no more,
while the lookout scanned in vain to see,
a non-existent shore,
but the sky was black and murky,
and he couldn’t even see,
the horizon in the distance,
where the parting used to be.
Its fury gained in violence,
increasing with a will,
and they watched in abject horror,
at it blowing harder still.
While they felt the wretched terror,
of the cruelly lashing sleet,
they stood and prayed in water,
that was now above their feet.
But with never a man among them,
that the sea had ever tossed,
who’d give rise to his opinion,

3

that the ship and crew were lost.
Least of all their Captain – Cabot,
as he ordered them to work –
'we’ll do it by the grace of God,
but not with those that shirk.'
‘Now, you hardy men of Bristol,
is the time to show your worth,
that you’re truly sons of sailors,
and each of noble birth,
shall you prove you’re men of metal’
claiming landfalls for the crown,
or men who’ll watch the water,
as you stand and wait to drown?’
There wasn’t one among them,
to defy the Captain's voice,
there wasn’t one among the crew,
who hadn’t come by choice.
So as one they took their duties,
down below and on the deck,
each one resigned and willing,
for the King – to lose his neck.
And they baled and pumped the water,
till the bilge was all but dry,
everyone except the lookout,
who was left to scan the sky.
And as the day gave way to dusk,
and dusk gave way to night,
the storm blew on without a sign,
of lessening its might.
It was a weary but a brave crew,
that battled in the dark,
stopping leaks and pumping water,
while the storm kept on its mark,
and a thankful crew that welcomed in,
the long awaited morn,
and rejoiced to see the weather was,

4

abating with the dawn.
The sun came up to light the sky,
the lookout in his nest,
still peering in the distance,
to the never ending west,
while the captain and the crew knelt down,
and prayed with one accord,
giving thanks for their survival,
to the glory of ‘Our Lord,’
and as they rose there came a shout –
‘Land ho, land ho, land ho –
it’s land I see,’ went up the call,
to all the men below.
From the foc’stle to the sternpost,
from the Captain to the cook,
every crewman took his turn,
and went aloft to have a look.
The rigging creaked and the stays went taught,
as the men climbed up to see,
that the land was there like a far flung cloud,
in a restless endless sea.
The land they saw was the first they’d seen,
in a hard toiled fifty days,
and it lay alone, like a rough hewn stone,
in a distant steamy haze.
So the ship drew near, and the land was clear,
and the rocks were plainly seen,
so were fine sea birds and moose in herds,
and grass and trees that were green.
They anchored up in a calm sea cove,
and lowered a boat from the side,
and pulled with a will, to a rock strewn shore,
on a gentle running tide,
where a flag was run up a makeshift pole,
to the Captain’s ‘By my hand,
in the name of the King we claim this land,
and we’ll call it New Founde Lande!’
  Submitted By: NULL