The Old Wayward Sailor

The Old Wayward Sailor
Oct 8, 1985


In the Shilling Horse Inn where the land meets the sea,
I was drinking my wine mixed with cinnamon tea.
All the captains and I talked of seaways and isles,
as the wenches served ale as they winked and they smiled,
and of pirates and treasures and glories of old,
when the old wayward sailor poked in.

I had noticed him naught as the sailors spoke on,
weaving webs made of words, spinning threads into songs,
but the candles grew short as the wax left the wicks,
as the captains grew weary and asked for their checks
and we finished the night by the yellow moon light,
as the maidens who served us slipped out of our sight
and the old, drunken seaman arose.

Then I spotted the man and my eyes met his stare
as they went down his face to his tangled, grey hair,
past the ring in his ear, beyond scars on his arms,
to the chain 'round his neck with a silvery charm
that he took in his hand, broke the fragile, thin strand,
and he threw it to me as he started to stand
and began to walk out of the Shilling Horse Inn.

Like a star in the sky, shooting 'cross the blue sea
the medallion was thrown through the air toward me.
It left gold in its path and a rainbow ahead.
"It be yours for the present," the old seaman said,
and I caught it before he had gone through the door
but when I turned to look, the old man was no more
and the charm sparkled bright in my hand.

And it hangs on my neck as it has for so long,
while the captains and sailors spin threads into songs,
but I don't touch it much, lest I look to the sea
wond'ring why the old seaman had thrown it to me.
And I still see his grin on that hairy, grey chin,
as he rose from his seat in the Shilling Horse Inn,
where the green of the land meets the blue of the sea.