Alfred, a planter, marred by years, verging
    On the tears of another age, with urgent
    Gasps throated out last words to his three sons:
    You needn't become the landsman your old man's been,
    Men, you needn't love these fields just
    As I have, though by the force of will they
    May turn you a yield, you wielding your
    Resourcefulness. Trusting that yes, all one
    Reads of the sea enchants, at a distance,
    Stay clear of it. Imagine a sailor's
    Day, three years parting, nothing other than
    Horizons of waves. Your fears are fair. Not
    A man alive left on those waves lives well
    As you will home on land with your wives
    And stoves. Even as your mother's hearth still
    Pleases, opposed to say, a second wife's
    Displeasure, bent on hard'ning strife, so
    The land's a life of relative ease, opposed
    To the sea's cruel measure,
    The restive ocean's thirsty knife.


Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.