(for Vince and Annie Clemente)

A whaling-seaman’s whistle,
The size of a man’s finger;

A serious, ocean toy;
A warning in weathered wood;

A pocket, blank totem pole,
Its shrill narrative sleeping.

A relic of the ocean,
Smooth as beached stone in my palm.

I blow for notes of the sea,
The call of an unknown bird.

I hear a command, a plea.
A picture of me, a boy.

Sails my waves of memories.
A cadet in uniform,

Cold on a ship off Mumbles,
Tipsy legs longing for land.

As water bashed starboard side,
As one crew man piped my fears

And loutish gulls tore the sky.
The frantic call to duty

Of a glinting whistle’s scream.
The water wild below us,

The spit of spouting salt spray,
My Grandpa’s house on Kilvey

Shrinking, shrinking: and Ahab’s
Nightmare breaching in my mind.

 Peter Thabit Jones © 2022

Published in GARDEN OF CLOUDS/NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2020