NaPoWriMo #30: Tiger Fire

And so, it has come to this; the final day of NaPoWriMo. How better to see off this year's event than with a recurring theme which lent this blog its name?

Tiger Fire

On the edge of a lake in Northern India,
where crocodiles gather and bask in the sun,
the way chital and sambar are restless
as the sun is directly overhead
and the grass is as dry as sand.

A fire crackles into life
and rages across the meadows,
flushing unsuspecting creatures
from their hiding places
and into the blaze's lethal path.

A tiger, resting under a sal tree,
feels the heat of the fire's hunger
and flees towards the lake,
flanked by the langur monkeys
and wild boar following in his wake.

At the water's edge, the tiger halts.
The flames cut off paths of escape.
The forest across the water remains unburned.
The tiger spies the chital running,
running to the lake to save their hides.

At last, the fire claims the shore,
but the tiger fears it no more,
for he alone amongst cats
masters the waters of the lake,
and tears past the crocodiles
to reach the opposite shore.

NaPoWriMo #29: Sheriff of the Savannah

Two days to go, and here we have the most unusual poem I've ever done for NaPoWriMo. Having read a bit of Edgar Allan Poe recently, I decided to write a poem set upon the African savannah in the same distinctive style (known as trochaic octameter) which he uses in 'The Raven'. So, here it goes.

Sheriff of the Savannah

Upon a hot savannah day the hyenas rest in the shade,
while a lone bull buffalo grazes in the long grass up to his knees.
His herd have moved on to safety, together they number eighty,
while the bull stands far from hasty in the grass up to his knees,
facing the danger approaching through the grass with greatest ease.
He will not run for the trees.

His opponents are no less bold, but he refutes their mighty hold
on the dried up river to the east and bush fires billowing west.
A pride of ten lions stalking while the buffalo starts walking
up to his fierce foes, un-balking, with sizable bovine heft,
not noticing a lack of friends to help in his lonesome quest
he stands firm against the test.

Three at a time they attack him, they try to bite or throttle him,
one lioness jabs from the front, her sisters lunge at his rear.
With fearsome horns he battles them, but his strength fails to scatter them
as they bite, claw and batter him, try to force him to his knees,
force the last great strength out of him and force him onto his knees
slaughter however they please

Yet the lions have not thought it, but the old bull will not forfeit.
He thrusts with his embattled horns and he holds back the onslaught.
At last the lions are tired, but the bull is still battle fired,
and the pride turn to retire to the shade beyond the trees,
leaving their opponent standing in the grass up to his knees,
watching as the lions leave.

The herd returns to greet the bull, the calves proving a small handful
as they jostle round him and stare at the deep wounds on his back.
His hide has withstood the battle, and the bull is hardly rattled
as the mightiest of cattle that roam the savannah track,
roaming across the endless grass along the savannah track
with new scars upon his back.

NaPoWriMo #28: Walking Catfish Wanderings

As the finish line of NaPoWriMo looms near, it's time to tackle another of their optional prompts. This time, the challenge is to use Skeltonic verse, pioneered by the fifteenth century English poet John Skelton. Put simply, it involves the use of short stanzas mixed with a vague rhyming scheme and two strong stresses per line. Here it goes.

Walking Catfish Wanderings

A catfish goes walking
and without talking
ponders life on the jungle floor
which it has not seen before.

Its pool is dry
and it must try
to search for new pastures
and squirm a bit faster

with spines on its gills,
with which it could climb hills
as it wills itself across
the land of twigs and moss

to find a small stream
with just a gleam
of light through the leaves
and finally it heaves

itself into the flow
where no other fish can go
and submerges below the surface,
having travelled the furthest

of any fish across land,
done without any hands,
a fish with instinct so strong
its journey did not go wrong.

NaPoWriMo #27: Cormorant Gang

It's another animal poem for day twenty seven of NaPoWriMo, and this time we meet a bird which is famous for being semi-aquatic and is found all over the world, including the banks of the River Ganges.

Cormorant Gang

We take to the water in gangs
up and down the Ganges,
swimming in great processions
as we search for shoals.

The fishermen call us water crows,
apt indeed, for with our hooked beaks
and oily black feathers, we are
their underwater cousins.

We find some unfortunate fish,
and flanked by a clan of otters
we surround them and dart
through the mirk of the river.

The fishermen take their share.
We squabble with the otters for ours,
but our gang leaves with silvery prizes
squirming in our beaks.

NaPoWriMo #26: Watchmen of Mull

Continuing the animal theme for the last few days of NaPoWriMo, I give you a poem centering on birds which went extinct in Britain more than a century ago, but were successfully reintroduced on islands such as Mull in the Inner Hebrides.

Watchmen of Mull

They sat on the clifftops
surveying the Firth of Lorn
in the days when the raptors
ruled the skies above the isles.

The sea eagles fished alongside
the humans on their vessels.
Myths of their viciousness
spread across the isles like rot,

and so did the hunters and trappers.
They purged the land for miles
of the kings and queens of the air,
until their sympathetic descendants

facilitated the eagles' restoration
to their old thrones on the cliffs.
Now the eagles soar over Mull,
snatching fish from the bay,

following their fishermen friends,
raising chicks in the old pines
and watching over their kingdom
should the old threats rear their heads.

NaPoWriMo #25: Jackal Sunset

It's time for another animal-themed poem for day twenty five of NaPoWriMo. The animal in this poem is a predatory creature from India; the rest is fairly straightforward.

Jackal Sunset

It darts across the grasslands
under the shadow of green hills.
The golden jackal searches
for food, living or not.

It chases the trails of the wolves,
leopards and the bloodthirsty dhole,
and will sometimes push its luck
when it spots a tiger on a kill.

The jackal's persistence is rewarded
as the night descends on the teak forest,
a leopard throttling a chital doe.
The jackal must wait to be served.

NaPoWriMo #24: Transformation

So, just six more days to go until the end of NaPoWriMo 2017, and it's left a trail of poetry in its wake. With that in mind, here's another poem about South Wales, and about one city in particular which has a strange habit of remaining aesthetically consistent no matter what new development happens.

Transformation

A train station,
Newport railway Station.
Standing since the days
when Queen Victoria
tried to be most amused
and failed.

It's barely changed since then,
save for one illustrious addition,
the segmented silver concourse
with translucent domes at both ends,
joined by a footbridge strung out
like an enormous grey millipede.

The future, they said.
Modernisation, they said.
Newport is ready
to welcome the world, they said.

The same brown soot cloaks it now.
The old platforms lie in its shadow,
still Victoria, still drab and paint-chipped,
just like everything else.

NaPoWriMo #23: Sonnet from Stratford

It seems the end is in sight for this year's NaPoWriMo, but there's still a fair way to go. I've just returned from Stratford-upon-Avon where I visited William Shakespeare's birthplace and his new place. Seeing as today is his 401st birthday, here's a sonnet about how I felt while wandering around his garden.

Sonnet from Stratford

I find myself in a poet's garden,
a vibrant and complex oasis
where every flower is as ardent
as the meanings they gifted to this
poet of poets who heard the dawn lark
and decided that one could not face it,
the morning arrived to cast out the dark,
the grasp of the mortal coils which trace it,
a strange world where all who seek to explore
and profit from its bounty, the question
for the poet sat outside his back door
to answer in words with no digression.
  Now I hear those words as spoken today
  and seek for answers lest they go astray.

NaPoWriMo #22: Manta Flotilla

Okay, this is a bit earlier in the day than usual, but since I'm on a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon this weekend, I thought it better to release this poem earlier. Featuring one of my favourite settings for poems, the animal in this one is a bit more off-kilter than usual.

Manta Flotilla

The Indian subcontinent
reaches out into the ocean,
a current caressing its coast.

Sometimes the current
carries creatures with it,
creatures on a journey.

Out of the endless blue
a manta ray appears,
the eagle of the waters.

Then two, three, six
follow their leader
with great sweeping fins.

They follow the highway
around the southern coast,
heading for the Bay of Bengal,

where the flotilla will find
the reefs to raise their young,
and the current goes on its way.

NaPoWriMo #21: Village Grapevine

It's been a while since I've taken up any of NaPoWriMo's daily prompts, but here we go. For my twenty first poem, I've followed NaPoWriMo's prompt to incorporate overhead speech, in this case overheard throughout my home village of Frynwys.

Village Grapevine

There's a lot of knotweed
down by the stream.

Is there really?
Better sort that out at some point.

Just moved up here from London,
getting my bearings you know?

Nice to meet you, don't worry,
this place is really quite small.

It's gone chilly all of a sudden,
it was sunny this morning.

You know what that is?
That's the cold front that is.

A blackbird chirps to a goldfinch.
I wish I knew what they were saying.

Oi, finch! Will you shut up?
You're doin' me head in and all!

NaPoWriMo #20: The Tale of Hannah Twynnoy

On the twentieth day of NaPoWriMo, my poetry said to me: "How about another tiger poem?". Well, I'm only too happy to oblige, so here's a poem inspired by the apparently true story of 18th Century barmaid Hannah Twynnoy. Where's the tiger in this? Read on and you'll see.

The Tale of Hannah Twynnoy

A long time ago, three centuries ago,
in the town of Malmesbury,
there lived a barmaid
named Hannah Twynnoy.

Now the pub Hannah worked at
was called the White Lion.
Such a name could have been a hint
of how things would transpire.

One day some animals came
to live in the pub's back yard.
Hannah spotted a tiger amongst them,
never had she seen a cat so large.

So fearsome yet held behind bars,
she saw no harm in provoking the beast.
She overestimated the patience of tigers
and things went more than a bit too far.

Now Hannah lies in the grounds of the abbey,
her headstone recording her last day alive,
when the tiger's patience finally snapped
and there was nowhere left to hide.

NaPoWriMo #19: Spitfire Swing

He's done it ladies and gentlemen. After nineteen days I've finally broken my record from the last NaPoWriMo two years ago. To mark the occasion, I present another car poem, this time about a classic British sports car.

Spitfire Swing

The older cousin of later Triumphs,
yet overshadowed by its relatives
both older and younger.

Low slung, bulging headlights,
narrow grill, flared curves
along its back wheel-arches.

Not as fearsome as the Stag,
not as refined as the 2000,
Not as alloyed as the Dolly Sprint,

yet as swift as a gazelle
when it meets a turn in the road
and as fast as the best of its league.

NaPoWriMo #18: The Beast Beneath the Coal

And so I've matched my previous NaPoWriMo record on day eighteen. With this in mind, here's a poem straight from the South Wales Valleys.

The Beast Beneath the Coal

Hills of coal in the southern valleys,
where miners made their homes,
the old ruins of their industry
scattered across the snow-swept slopes.

The beast dwells in the deep caverns
which the miners didn't reach.
Slumbering on a bed of coal
lined with slivers of gold,

no colliery knew of it,
no cavers ever stumbled on it,
and yet the scaly wonder
draws on the warmth
from the rocks above its lair,
waiting for the day
to erupt out of the valley
in a cloud of soot and flame.

NaPoWriMo #17: Cats in Trees

It's another India-themed poem for day seventeen of NaPoWriMo. This time, it features two of India's top predators in the vicinity of a single tree.

Cats in Trees

A teak tree in central India,
one of many in a deciduous forest.

A leopard with its kill on a branch,
its spotted fur blends into the bark.

A tiger prowling below,
unaware of its rival watching from above.

NaPoWriMo #16: Easter Jamming

It's been a long time coming, but to celebrate Easter I've brought Flying Hare and the River Band out of retirement to play a suitably off-the-wall NaPoWriMo gig.

Easter Jamming

The band gathers in a field
just outside a market town,
Flying Hare, Roving Otter,
Father Vole, Smoking Goose,
joined by Manic Owl.

They go looking for eggs,
which an industrious bunny
had hidden the grass.
Goose finds his first,
Otter second, Hare third,
Owl fourth, and Vole last.

With the sun in midday zest,
the man grabs their instruments
and plays a grooving, mellow tune.
A tribute to the egg hunters
around the countryside
who are taking a break at noon.

Hare flies into rapid-fire
on his blistering archtop guitar.
Otter thrummed on his shimmering bass,
Vole rattled his drums,
Goose trumpeted like a wild fowl,
and Owl played his sax all over the place.

At sundown the animals go home,
bags full of chocolate eggs,
their instruments well-played.
They feast on the eggs till midnight
and go to bed with full stomachs,
ready to start jamming the very next day.

NaPoWriMo #15: Hunters Return

It's finally happened. I've reached the half-way point of NaPoWriMo, and to celebrate this milestone, I present a poem which was inspired by a story I've been following recently.

Hunters Return

A young chimpanzee
sits beneath a tree
in the Ugandan jungle,
his brother lounging
in the branches above.

They had considered
shadowing the hunting gang
when they left,
but given their mob mentality
the brothers decided better.

Suddenly a clamour strikes up,
the jungle canopy explodes
into a frenzy of shrieks.
The youngsters recognise
the work of their older kin.

The hunters return
with dismembered red colobus
to satiate their bloodlust.
Maybe a morsel or two
will be left for the brothers
if they ask nicely.

NaPoWriMo #14: Early Spring

For today's NaPoWriMo poem, I've chosen a favourite topic of poets through the years: the seasons. More specifically, the early spring which we're currently experiencing, and the title of this piece is pretty self-explanatory.

Early Spring

Spring, that time of year
when grey becomes a memory
not so distant, close enough
to remember the bitter cold,
and green starts to assert itself.

Trees, skeletons of bark and timber,
their branches dotted with dormant alveoli,
return to their former selves
week after week till the green
blossoms into a swaying canvas.

Hidden away inside itself,
frozen by the frost and vice-grip
of the last winter's cold,
a yellow rose bud sprouts
and transforms into an amber altar.

NaPoWriMo #13: Chrome

Yet another car themed poem graces the blog today for NaPoWriMo. This time, I talk about a feature of classic cars which is not seen often on today's vehicles.

Chrome

There was a time when chrome
caressed the curves of cars.

The bumpers, the doors, the headlights,
those vehicles were adorned
with mirror-metal.

Prestige, that's what those
silver trimmings meant,
and still mean after forty years
of sitting in someone's garage.

Then the plastic and fibres arrived,
and chrome faded into dull metal,
the polish set aside
for sunny Sunday afternoons,
to see the sunshine once in a long summer.

NaPoWriMo #12: Severn Blues

Today's poem is inspired by NaPoWriMo's daily prompt, which asked for a poem with a lot of alliteration and assonance. I have to say, having read this back, this poem contains a lot more of the former than it does of the latter.

Severn Blues

A river emerges from the lowlands,
swallowing another as it swirls
its way to the sea
in a sumptuous symphony.

Bridges that bind the roads
in a bilateral bond
brace themselves against the barrage
of the brutal channel wind.

Across the flow of the rolling Severn,
a lammergeyer flies higher than gulls
inland across grass fires to a new roost
somewhere on a drier mountainside.

NaPoWriMo #11: Flight of the Veyron

It seems cars are becoming a regular feature of my NaPoWriMo journey. We've already had one poem about the legendary Jaguar E-Type, so here's one about the equally majestic speed king itself.

Flight of the Veyron

A thousand horses
imprisoned in sixteen cylinders,
released at the press of a foot
on the throttle.

From the horse and cart
to a car with the face
of a big cat in a trance,
fixated on the track,

on moving in a straight line
faster than any speed warrior
has travelled before.
Hugging the tarmac,

retracting its rear spoiler
like a peacock's train
and tearing down the road
in a blur worthy of hyperspace.

NaPoWriMo #10: A Worm Wakes Up on a Monday Morning

Okay, so things may have taken a surreal turn on the blog. For the tenth NaPoWriMo poem, we have the familiar tale of a homeowner struggling to cope with noisy neighbours.

A Worm Wakes Up on a Monday Morning

Just under the grass
of a spring-drenched lawn
an earthworm rests
in his one room flat
next door to an ant nest.

His neighbours went out
the night before last,
and it had been quite a party
on the surface as the ants
gathered their crops.

The worm is still recovering
from that bombastic disturbance
when a spade caves in his ceiling
and baths him sunshine
while a blackbird eyes him from the trees.

NaPoWriMo #9: Waters of the Usk

A bit of an unusual subject for today's NaPoWriMo poem, but it fits with the current theme of experimentation so why not? The subject is the River Usk, a river which flows through South Wales and out of Newport, and is famous for having the second widest tidal range of any river in the world.

Waters of the Usk

A slick of mud and soil
drained from the riverbanks
cascades from the hills
down to the wetlands,
the coils of the River Usk.

Cormorants patrol its waters,
diving for fish and eels
along the immovable mud-banks,
while terns and seagulls cruise
above the capricious tides.

NaPoWriMo #8: Streets

And so we've reached day eight of NaPoWriMo, and today's poem is inspired by their daily prompt which suggested that participants write a poem featuring repetition of a single word, similar to Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells" or Joy Harjo's "She Had Some Horses.

Streets

Streets of shops,
streets of houses,
streets of shops and houses,
the town is lined with streets.
The streets form the arteries,
the veins, generate the circulation
to the town's heart.
The streets are lined with cars,
either parked on the kerb
or clogging up the road,
they choke the streets
leading into town,
the labyrinth stretching out
to meet streets bordering the green
of the shrinking countryside.

NaPoWriMo #7: E-Type

So this is a bit later today than usual, but here comes a short poem inspired by one of the greatest British sports cars of all time.

E-Type

Who would have thought
that so much elegance
could be encapsulated
within sheets of metal.

A long, sloping bonnet,
oval feline headlamps
and shimmering chrome
illuminate a sea-coloured car.

When such a car is flying
down the twistiest of lanes,
one can hear its namesake
thundering within its cylinders.

NaPoWriMo #6: Chameleon

And so we arrive at the sixth day in this poetic odyssey. Today's poem is inspired by that famous lizard which can not only camouflage itself, but can move its eyeballs independent and catch prey with a sticky tongue.

Chameleon

It dwells on low hanging branches,
still until a passing insect
lands within its range.

Creeping forward amongst the leaves
with the precision and stiffness
of a clockwork doll,

the chameleon eyes the bug
with pin-point pupils,
the reptilian sniper's sights.

A flash of red ribbon,
the jaws snap shut,
and the waiting begins again.

NaPoWriMo #5: King of Cats

It's time for another tiger poem. This one was inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site, which encouraged participants to write a poem based in the natural world, in line with the work of Mary Oliver. It could be about a plant, animal or location and preferably one you have experienced often. So here's my attempt.

King of Cats

The last vestige
of a bygone time
when beasts still ruled
and humans huddled
around campfires,
telling stories
of the tiger.

The golden eyes of authority,
the only source of it
in the entire jungle.
No leopard or sloth bear
can match its grace
or the power with which
it pulls down a sambar stag
or duels with a bull guar.

Stripes, oily black,
on a burning coat of fur,
the emblazoned symbol
of an entire nation.
Humans appropriate its image,
worship its primal majesty,
fear its savagery when they step
into its isolated domain.

Yet in the face of a tiger
rests hopes for the future,
a future devoid of fear
of man-made extinction.
All things have their time,
but theirs is approaching sooner
in the form of snares, traps
and the weaponry of man.

Poets attempt to encapsulate
the tiger's immortality,
yet it is a construct,
a poetic device disguising
the battleground of the old jungles,
the trails of skins
leading across Asia.

A tigress sits in her den,
tending to her mewling cubs,
their young stripes help light the flame
which burned for millions of years,
faced with being extinguished
before its time.

NaPoWriMo #4: Differences

Today's poem was inspired by a prompt from NaPoWriMo, which challenged participants to write a poem with a secret. The guidelines were that the poem should contain an idea or a subject that isn't expressed outright. This is my attempt, and I suspect that you will probably guess what it's about pretty quickly.

Differences

Sitting in the shadow of a cactus,
a man with bushy sideburns
draws sketches in a journal.

A mockingbird sits in a bush
and jumps onto the soil
to catch a beetle.

The slim, curved beak,
grey and white feathers
and large brown eyes
seem familiar yet dissimilar.

Compared with the sketches
of its relatives, the man
discovers differences so small
yet they begin a revolution.

Frynwys Features #1: A Fishy Engagement

If you're one of the extremely few people who've been following this blog for some time, you'll be aware that I live in a very small village called Frynwys in South Wales. It has few places of note; a village hall, a shop, some wild land on its southern edge, a pub and a couple of small parks. Because of this, Frynwys is pretty much dead in terms of excitement or adventure. In fact the most activity we've had recently has been the restoration of a path which took shorter than expected.

That's not to say nothing of note ever happens here. I've previously mentioned the incident in which a terrapin was released into the local pond, and before that a Bell Boeing V-22 Osprey flew over my house during the NATO summit in Newport back in 2014. With this in mind, I think it's time I covered all the interesting and positively riveting goings on of Frynwys in this new feature.

So what's been happening in Frynwys recently? Let's start things off with a familiar theme. It seems the pond has become a hive of activity over these last few weeks, especially since the frogs have spawned and their eggs are frothing in clusters on the banks. Then, as I was walking past the pond the other day, I noticed some large orange shapes moving close to the surface. It took me a second to realise that they were carp of some kind, and that yet again someone had released fish into the pond. The last time this happened the fish were removed by the warden in charge of looking after the village's wild land, and a sign was put up explaining the effect of the fish on the pond's ecology and asking for the perpetrator to come forward. I wonder if they'll do the same when they discover several large carp in the pond. The frogspawn will certainly provide them with an easy food source, which will lead to an angry warden indeed.

Elsewhere in Frynwys, I encountered a strange situation by the park at the bottom of the village. I was walking past there headed to another street, and saw a woman and her two children (who I estimate were about four or five years old). The children were swinging on the swings as children that age do, but as I walked past them they suddenly started screeching the chorus to the song 'Heathens' by Twenty One Pilots. The opening lyric of said chorus startled me, but I didn't expect them to launch into the rest of the song, which they proceeded to do. I take it most people by now are familiar with the film Suicide Squad, and that 'Heathens' is a song written for and closely associated with said film. Thus the lyrics are to do with psychopaths, murderers, and is general a gloomy song which nonetheless I think is quite a good one if a bit overplayed during 2016. As I left the kids were still singing it, and their mother seemed completely oblivious. Not that I have anything against children singing 'Heathens', but I couldn't help but be surprised that the parent didn't seem to notice the song's content.

Closer to home, my street to be exact, some of our neighbours have moved out. They were the longest resident homeowners on our street, with my family not far behind in second place. Now, since one of them has retired, they decided to move with their two cocker spaniels to a house in Cornwall. It makes perfect sense; I've often thought about retiring to the coast in the future, although that is an incredibly long-term plan since I'm nowhere near retirement age. Still, their departure now leaves my family the longest-serving residents on our street, which is a bit of an odd feeling.

And finally, in the only other noteworthy bit of news I've managed to accumulate, a friend of mine is getting engaged. This is particularly noteworthy to me at least, because this is a friend I went to primary school with in the nearby school. We parted ways after I was sent to a school in Newport and he was sent to the local comprehensive, but we've kept in touch over the years. Now that he's engaged, the passage of time has suddenly become clearly evident to me. I can remember most of my school days with precise clarity, and it only feels like we were there just the other day. Funny how everyone grows up.

That concludes this first installment of Frynwys Features. I suspect there will be more to come from this segment, but given the slow and quiet nature of life in this little backwater, it might take a while.

NaPoWriMo #3: Microraptor

For day three of NaPoWriMo I'm attempting to push the boat out a bit. Today's poem centres on a tiny dinosaur discovered in China at the turn of the millennium. Anyone who's familiar with dinosaurs or indeed the work of James Gurney will recognise this animal.

Microraptor

A flat splayed skeleton,
a bird's long-lost grandfather,
a tiny skull, like a robin with teeth
and four feathery wings.

Spider fingers hooked with claws,
feet clutched like those of a crow,
a tail lined with wafer-thin plumage
and four feathery wings.

The transition is clear,
yet the differences clearer,
a creature of two lineages
with four feathery wings.

NaPoWriMo #2: Home at the Dawn Chorus

For my second poem in this thirty day odyssey, I present a tale of the dawn chorus as seen from the perspective of an inebriated blackbird. Whoever said poetry needed to be about deep themes?

Home at the Dawn Chorus

A blackbird flutters back to his roost
after a night down the garden
dining on seeds
from an immaculate green feeder
with several perches
wallowing with other birds
in a stone bird bath
after which he clambers into his nest
to sleep off the gorging
and the guzzling
and the slurred singing of Wren of Harlech
only to hear the robin in the next tree
belting out a tenor solo
as the sun rises
and the blackbird curses
the chorus which greets his ears.

NaPoWriMo #1: Victory

And we're off. For the first day of NaPoWriMo we have a poem about a famous flagship of the Royal Navy. Seems an odd choice for April Fool's Day, but here we go.

Victory

A beast of the waters,
a hundred cannons lining its hull,
the flagship of oceanic warfare.

The Victory bristles with guns,
hairs which stand on end
at the sight of an enemy armada.

They bristled at Ushant, twice.
They bristled at Gibraltar,
and at Cape St. Vincent,

opening fire each time bar one.
Then came Cape Trafalgar.
The old warship charged

at the enemy fleet across the water,
a bloodthirsty hound of the sea.
That fight nearly proved its last,

duelling a fearsome opponent,
a fight in which it lost its commander
but from which it emerged a scarred veteran.