Retired Schooner, Conwy Harbour

Retired Schooner, Conwy Harbour

So sad to see you here, dry-docked; 

Chained fast to rough-hewn harbour wall,

By manacles that hold you land-locked, 

Responsive no more to the rise and fall

Of the Ocean swell; embracing the keel, 

Caressing the stern, a lover and friend

Whose touch you welcome. Do you feel

Any sense of sadness at journey's end?

Princess disguised, changeling under a spell, 

Your gun-ports black with modern paint, 

(Where once they spat the flames and smoke of hell).

In place of England's Patron Saint 

(Red cross on white) the flag of commerce flies,

Tea and scones in the state-room aft, 

Where chart and compass, helped by sun and skies, 

Plotted roadless roads for a salt-scarred craft.

Yet even here your dignity remains, 

Gulls still find a perch on mastheads tall, 

Though bloodstains now defer to coffee stains,

You lie in state, under frowning wall

And stubborn, alien castle towers

of Conwy town (by Edward's English built 

And defiant Welsh reclaimed). Soft showers 

Flood your decks with tears; tears of English guilt.