The Sea – West End to Red Hook

Jennie N. Wheatley

A woman she is called,
Erratic, unpredictable
Her moods beset
By wind and moon.
Yes womanhood
Accepts with pride
The grudging recognition
Of her role
In Johnson’s Ghut
The lady in smoothed gown
And ruffleless
Hit by a squall
Raises her dress
And most unladylike
Reveals her clothes beneath
Then Temper tantrum calmed
By Whistling Island’s
Balmy influence
The lady becomes
More ladylike again.
Until the ground swells
Like earthquakes
Toss her to the
Waiting shore.
Her skirt must rise again
And to reciprocate
She tosses many a craft
Like grass and paper boats.
Captains respect her then
No propeller guides itself
No bandying jokes are heard
No moment unattended
As rise and fall
Of breast is noted
And the captain
Touches her warily
Expecting any moment
To be slapped,
Rebuffed, rebuked, rejected.
Unpredictable woman? No?
Predictable? Yes?
Forecasters try and fail
To see her hidden depths
And modern man
Admits with shame,
“I cannot always
Read her depths.”

Copyright ©Jennie N. Wheatley