A clipper ship sails out today
and bobs on angry white-tipped swells
that rise and roll across the bay
while in Portsmouth a church bell knells.

We stand on shore and watch it leave
while dawn peeks out and daubs the sky
as Winslow might with misty mauve.
Around us white gulls wheel and cry.

We watch it sail Into the sun
and slip below horizon fast
till all that’s seen above the line
are tinted sails, the tallest mast.

A frightful thought's unspoken here,
yet all seafaring folk like me
will grimly watch, force down our fear
that this ship's doomed, soon lost at sea.