Fritillary
Sweet bright grasses fringed about a secret cove,
With little rasping voices, softer than the waves that curl,
Softer than the winds that trill a harmony across the dunes,
Telling tales ...
Butterflies brown and white, with lead-light marks upon their wings
With tiny cooing voices, softer than terns, softer far than dolphin gulls,
Softer than a million sand midges with their tiny beating wings,
Telling tales ...
'We saw it there', 'it was so long ago', 'they passed the story on'
'Years and countless years', 'a hundred generations, I dare suggest'
'It flew, our ancestors claimed, like a thing possessed'
Telling tales ...
'How it cried!'—'like a beast bled, I heard, 'and all the while
A flapping', 'A noise my family passed to me, like a clap of thunder'
—'In a summer storm'—They drowsed together, in lush seed-head,
Telling tales ...
Victualling: Mr. Philobert Jenkins' Account
That picher, sir? A fine ship she were, on the
Nitrate run a while—carried forty men—and Shorty Sloane—
I've been with the firm near forty years, seen the fam'ly
Come and go—but it's the ships you remember—Yes, sir?
Biscuits?—Mr. Mullins will serve you, sir—It were port
Not brandy for Lord 'amer's yacht—Beg yours—
Shorty Sloane? I remember 'im particular—Brought bad luck,
The men said, casual-like—Couldn't see it meself—but never sailed.
No sir—Salt, sir? Nine and sixpence, that'll be—
They paid 'im orf, Shorty, left 'im in this port and that—
Poor Shorty—couldn't leave the sea alone—
'e finally got a berth in 'obart Town—'e loved that ship,
And Shorty weren't a sentimental man—a perfect clipper—
Pine—'aven't seen the 'uon pine, sir? Lovely, yellow wood.
Made fine ships, that it did … Loved 'er like a son, they said.
Went overboard one night, left a note—
To give the ship good luck, 'e wrote, poor bloke—
Quaffed the cap'n's best French brandy, 'fore 'e done the deed,
No rum for Shorty Sloane when 'e set out for 'eaven, like—
And you know what, sir? Didn't do no good … that fine clipper,
Strong as they make 'em, plied the sea with perfect pitch, regal like,
Should've seen 'er, sir—and ran before the wind, straight
Into an open shore—some said it were the skipper at that
Fine French brandy—but that weren't no comfort to poor Shorty—
… Now your rope, sir, 'awser-laid … 'emp, sir, sisal or coir?
'The way it fell, like a stricken beast', 'great gushing gouts, they said'
'Not a story for the young'—'And cries', 'More a bellow, in my version'
'A wounded roar, I heard … like a dragon stabbed'—'And then the stalks broke'
Telling tales ...
'It had a name, they saw, in gilt upon its head';—'S.S. Fri—l—'—'It wore away
With time, a shadow of a name'; the fritillaries gather round these wormholes
In the weathered wood; a faint sweet fragrance still there about the worn-out ribs,
Telling tales ...
