Red Rust in the Sunset

The lagging wave hangs whitely just behind the bow,
And in the calm that it divides a tramp slips out.
Outlasting yachts and liners – it may be, their Lines –
Ad hoc by definition, chance’s charter, luck’s
Vague cruise outside the twelve-mile limit, tramping
pays,
Its truest capital its mockery of plan,
Its Brass cut to a strictest pattern: devious.
The Culture of the Bridge is everywhere the same:
Odysseus on board would know just where he was;
Could take the tiller, turn a profit, turn a phrase.
And could Magellan? Circumnavigators’ dreams
Are no Greek eye toward the main chance, nor is the
course
Of galleons elusive, Portuguese as speech
Or flag convenience. A vessel well designed
Entails no wake to speak of, nor an art excess:
Only a thin bow-wave to quill the cutting edge;
An unintended cargo dealt with as it comes;
Distinct from an itinerary, a careful course
Among close isles of dalliance, where vengeance
waits;
The keeping of the watch, that will at last keep you;
A lined-off log that is your life; the life that log;
Its unknown payout in the last long port of call.