You Boat

The clicks, the whirls,
The pips and the bleeps,
Hunched over the desk,
At thirty degrees,
Scraps freed from cupboards,
Like malnourished rabbits,
Scampering from hutches,
Earphones tight to a sweated head,
Bathed in battle station red,
And the enemy’s metal,
In the throes of a Danse Macabre,
The grand dame of the sea,
Falling to her partner’s sodden knee,
These are the sounds of sailors,
Drifting through a liquid grave,
Headstones prick the flood.