Cape Horn

We haven’t picked out
our special earrings,
haven’t designed
our own tattoos yet.

The days have grown calm,
the surface as flat
as glass reflecting the
slate sky. We go
to sleeep in that
unnatural stillness,
night after night, the
warmth and stillness.

But soon an electric
voice echoes off
the bulkheads, advising
we secure ourselves.

What security is there,
where can we run
as we round The Horn,
thunder rumbling,
shaking us as the seas
threaten to swamp us?

What feels like years
may just be hours.
We struggle to reach
the deck, to find
the lifeboats but
soon find there are none,
not even a deck we
can find to pass for land.

The air grows steadily
colder, snow peaks
arrive from the horizon.
We know we’ll never round
The Horn, never reach land again.
The decks are empty. We
have each other but
that will not be enough.

                       — Frank Judge