Old boat by Michael Cope | Poems Rethabile Likes
Books by Michael Cope
Novels:
- Spiral of Fire (David Philip, 1986)
- Goldin: A Tale (iUniverse, 2005)
- Sunderland (Jacana, 2014, with Ken Barris)
- The Fall of Ugarit (Vanity Press, 2025)
Poetry:
- Scenes and Visions (Snailpress, 1990)
- GHAAP, Sonnets from the Northern Cape (Kwela Books and Snailpress, 2005)
- The Craft (Left Field Press, 2017)
Memoir:
- Intricacy: A Meditation on Memory (Double Storey, 2005)
Other:
- Concerning the Work (Thin Ice Press, York, UK and River Press, Cape Town) — about the jeweller's tools
Old boat
by Michael Cope
The old boat has been in the sun too long.
The fading paint peels off, streaks of rust
Dribble down its flanks, and while it rocks
Like all the other boats moored along the port
It sits a little deeper, perhaps a touch
Waterlogged, the dark weight tugging down
Towards the bed where the remains of light
Ripple over ill-lit stones. Seaweed hangs
In mucous strands from the mooring line
Up to tidal level, where the rope turns white.
Gulls perch on the stern, leaving streaks
Of shit. The tiller sways a little
In the rise and fall of the gentle swell.
The boat has not been out for seasons now.
Could we not haul it in from the mooring buoy,
Bail out the slimy bilge, charge the battery,
Kick the old one-cylinder motor back
To thudding life, steel shaft turning over?
That far blue horizon calls and calls
For one more voyage, to cross again
The flat receding line, but it's been
Too long in the sun, it's taking water,
Listing to one side, may not survive
The inevitable winter storms.
The eels are beckoning as evening falls
And the lights come on around the port
Making golden paths on the rippled sea.
The fading paint peels off, streaks of rust
Dribble down its flanks, and while it rocks
Like all the other boats moored along the port
It sits a little deeper, perhaps a touch
Waterlogged, the dark weight tugging down
Towards the bed where the remains of light
Ripple over ill-lit stones. Seaweed hangs
In mucous strands from the mooring line
Up to tidal level, where the rope turns white.
Gulls perch on the stern, leaving streaks
Of shit. The tiller sways a little
In the rise and fall of the gentle swell.
The boat has not been out for seasons now.
Could we not haul it in from the mooring buoy,
Bail out the slimy bilge, charge the battery,
Kick the old one-cylinder motor back
To thudding life, steel shaft turning over?
That far blue horizon calls and calls
For one more voyage, to cross again
The flat receding line, but it's been
Too long in the sun, it's taking water,
Listing to one side, may not survive
The inevitable winter storms.
The eels are beckoning as evening falls
And the lights come on around the port
Making golden paths on the rippled sea.
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