The Harbour at Night

It won’t take a Pulitzer in poetry to recognize I am NOT a poet. But I love poetry and I have this book on how to write it which basically says “Just do it!” So here is an attempt. Although it isn’t overtly about faith, there is a subversive faithfulness living on a boat (as anywhere) which may or may not be caught here.

Thanks for having me,
Kim Petersen


There are certain elements of living
on a boat
that sink like a stone in slow motion
to the bottom of your soul.
Like now for instance
a stiff breeze blows
off the coast of northern Sardinia;
the resulting swell
curves around the breakwater
and hits each hull stacked
up like dominos
along the dock
at a slightly different interval
their rise and fall
reminds me of the human wave
rolling across Mile High Stadium
during a Bronco game.

With each upward motion
there is a crescendo of groaning lines
a creaking of fenders rubbing together
that blends
with the eerie howl of air
rushing by the mast of the sailboat next to us.
The winds version
of blowing
into a plastic 2 litre pop jug.

They are familiar sounds-
as familiar to me as breathing.

Somewhere
over the breakwater
ships make their way in the night;
but here in the harbour
we make ice cream sundaes
which drip on the floor and are licked up by the dog.