Gale-battered survivors
of distant water, they trawled
a featureless nowhere
to make ends meet.
Enduring iron cold
and routine extremes
of oceanic storm,
they hove past torpedoes,
mines, gunboats.
Sweeping channels
to keep them clear
for North Atlantic convoys,
they netted scrap
for years, ending up as pawns
in Cold War, Cod War,
and scuppering deals.
Holding their own
against the worst
that arctic skies
and deep swells muster,
they came to grief
on a creeping tide –
twelve miles, fifty
and then two hundred…
While here’s one
that’s found its anchorage
beyond breakers’ yards,
where unindentured
boys with rods
fish for tiddlers
and the Sainsbury’s trolley,
sunk for a lark, may still one day
be salvaged.