The whistle is dreadful,
and the sea is dreadful
and your guise is whittled,
your forgiveness whispered,
from which, lo, a fleet
is risen from concrete -
I've risen it from ash
that I didn't know was here.
They're cajoled to unrepent,
even after soft persistence -
but it doesn't end,
and they never listen.
It lies dormant
until wakened again,
ten times worse
and ten times more scared -
the dragon aflame
or the serpent aset
who puts me to shame
and leaves me no rest.
I wait for its blame
and it never comes,
so perhaps it's the same
that I wait it to pass;
perhaps the fire dies;
perhaps its wings burn up
purged in their own light;
perhaps the bird outcries
its melody at last;
perhaps I make it die;
perhaps I'm mortified -
perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.