a locker

a locker is a sort of miniature you
haven’t much room on-ship
roll your mattress rope around
hammocks slung sausage-like

these curtain rails carrying

a coiled rope and a heaving line
panic at the dock everyone swearing
doesn’t bother me a cramped situation
eight fathoms for your morning wash

around the beds in the ward

a rough bloody outfit
you was on the frontline
some of the roughest buggers ever
I’ll take you all

remind me of

a good rough house in the pub
was a favourite occupation
thorough gentlemen
below decks

hammock rails

remind: dear me you don’t half meet characters
limbs and bits of heavy engineering
the place exploding
you hit the floor

the clews as they call em

undo them strings beg a kiss
the nurses
stealing sailors’
hatbands for ribbons


Allan Whittaker
Cherry Tree
2007