'Tis a hundred and thirty-five years
since the loss of ship and blade,
and more since the knife was made.
The hoary incrustation
on handle and sheath,
rock-like, full of shells,
bespeaks great age.
But still, though beyond the span
of a human life,
the age of the knife
is only double mine.
The sheath still carries the smell
of engine-room oil,
the owner's toil,
bringing closer
that fateful night.
"Nothing," says the Gainford blade,
"lasts like steel."
Nothing lasts like the smell
of oil and fear.
Nothing lasts
like sun and wind,
and sea,
and sea.
Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.
