Cruises of Fond Memory

Mostly I don’t remember because I hate travelling,
A to B by bus or train or plane.

But I remember Larne to Rothesay, a twelfth birthday treat,
every gust and salt-wave deep jellyfish on the way,

and MV Balmoral pitching and tossing from Mumbles
Head to Ilfracombe that sixth of August on our honeymoon.

Our house far on a Glamorgan hillside from the deck of the Waverley,
paddle-steaming our way round Gower to Worm’s Head.

Tarifa to Tangier’s exotic mouth of the Med,
watching Gibraltar disappear and Africa assert itself.

Water taxis in the Inner Harbour, Fort McHenry to Fell’s Point
brimful of October sunset sails; a constellation in itself.

North Shields to Amsterdam eating sunset, drinking wine.
the heavy scent of cannabis calming the North Sea wave.

Gliding along the leafy banks of the Mississippi
past Fort Snelling on a warm, September popcorn afternoon.

Maid of the Mist drenched by Niagara in geology
kissed and coloured like the rainbows on Goat Island.

Steam Yacht Gondola’s golden prow on Coniston Water glistening;
reading my poem on board with Sid the Serpent listening.

Manhattan’s stricken skyline from Staten Island Ferry cried
Liberty.

Somehow, though I don’t remember how,
each prow and stern became a part of me.