Verdant

Verdant


It really is cold; sea spray has painted the ship
ghostly white, light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clanking ice cubes.

I scratch a happy face on thick glass of a frozen
porthole, in three hours we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire drink wine,
and give a damn about sailor’s miserable life.

Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls; look at
that sea, so deftly verdant, delicate brush stokes
too, the artist is famous and, they say, very rich.