The writer hunched down by an ocean of hope

And let go of the anchoring rope,

seaworthy words that his spilled soul splashed,

into a bottomless trope

A launching without a champagne bottle smash,

A ripple bob in a still pond,

Poetical dinghies seeking a home,

after dismal days in the beyond

Their joyful old shanties had salted,

Susurration of waves was their song,

The marooning of words in a slush pile,

Where solitude stayed for too long

Those critical storms were relentless,

Not a bite in an ocean of hooks,

And the writer waits, baited, forever,

In the harbour for unpublished books