My Irish Grandsire was a sailor.

Spent his years on the seas.

Telling tales, he once told me

if Captain Smith, Master of Titanic

had done nothing

but hit the iceberg straight on,

his ship could have limped back to Liverpool

with naught but a bruised bow

and a few cracked ribs among passengers and crew.

But not a thousand stiff corpses

floating in a near freezing ocean,

neither hundreds drowned in one of two coffins

at the bottom of a deep black trench,

“Like my dear Grand Uncle Fergus

from County Meath.

Bound for America, he was!

But drowned, trapped in steerage,

below decks when her bow broke away!

Let the Fates decide!” he cried.

And I believed him.

I’ve limited my life on the water

to swimming laps in pools

no deeper than five feet

and lived to tell the tale.

Although,

I’ve never seen, but on the TV,

phosphorescent waves

glowing during a midnight watch

nor a golden sunset sinking

into deep blue waters

nor an albatross

gliding ‘cross wave-spray,

bound for his mating grounds

a thousand miles away.

So, I’ve come to question

whether Grandpa was dolling out

good advice,

he who lived his life on the waves…

But,

I’ve enjoyed the swims.

It’s been a healthy life

and…

nice.

And it’s too late now,

anyway.