Flukes

Watch for the flukes



That's our skipper's cry
and one, with held breath
we await the whale

On the sun jeweled sea
our shadowing boat rolls
and we blow on rough knuckles
reddened in the chill air

Hung between gray clouds
and this gray swept sea
lone shearwaters beat
along the low swells

And what should we do
but wait in this time
till his rough knuckles
and back break water

And the swell of his blow
shakes a fist of white air
driven aloft, opens
releasing diamonds

Then that whale goes down
hoisting his great tail
to cleave a last air

Watch for the flukes