A sailor stands on a quiet deck
in the still of a peaceful night–
He suddenly sees, like a cobweb-dream,
a galleon of faery-light,
riggings of gossamer, translucent and pale,
looming up high to port.
Silently sailing, as if quite alone,
as if no more solid than thought–
wonder and marvel,
afloat on a sea as smooth and slick as glass.
Onward, in silence, broadside to his own,
there’s no way the ships can pass….
He watches it coming, the phantom ship,
with it’s wondrous faery crew–
Naught can be done,
there is only the hope
that this ghost of a ship will pass through–
But the delicate lines and fragile truths
of the gossamer hull are too real:
They shatter and buckle and slide beneath
the rusty old iron and steel…
Not a sound marks the moment,
not a crack, not a cry,
as the faery ship goes down.
Not a ripple disturbs the smooth waters at all,
as the faery crew struggle and drown…
Only the sailor, standing alone,
ever witnessed the terrible sight
of the ruin and wreck of the faery galleon
that still and peaceful night.