Ship

It’s not just the war that bothers me,
or the fact that spring has gone missing,
it’s more how the Danio ends up wrecked
on the same rocks as the Forfarshire
and for ten days we can see its arse,
that gash, the clumps of pubic weed,
how two thousand deadweight ton can sulk,
while the deck is rinsed of excuses
by six crew who simper to camera,
preferring not to admit their mistake
is one that’s been made for centuries,
and their geo-plotting devices
won’t save them from bluster, or lessen
the desperate need to pay attention.