Catboat: post race

He has gone for gin, he says, but I know he has gone

to meet the others to talk of finishing times,

changing handicaps and rounding the third mark.

They gather there, feet rooting in the night-damp earth,

and murmur of accidental jibes in freshening winds.

And I am here huddled low in the cockpit of the old boat

amid the safety and confusion of tackle, coiled mainsheet and lifelines,

teased by the reefing cords hanging down from the sail

dangling in my view. I look across the rising and falling horizon

through the kaleidoscope of the forestays and backstays

of the tourist yachts, docklines and burgees twisting to be free of their halyards.

I study the cat’s mast, spruce and resin, uncounted coats of varnish,

a beam reaching into universes for me. Wedged against the tiller

my bare feet feel the undercurrent pull at the rudder

with tugs that I know are not random now.

Then through the slap-clanging of rigging on rigging

I hear his footfalls on the dock.

He is bringing the finishing times and the gin.

I pull myself from the cat’s damp womb and stretch up into the cool air.

We will sit on the dock, sipping gin, and talk of the next start.