The Wheel

It sits on the beach,the stern raised up,bow deep in the sand,ship itself kaput,utterly devoured by rust,salt from the ceaseless waves pounding it,blasting it to smithereens;in the midst of all this,the ship’s wheel shining like a new pin,impregnable from the onslaught: varnished oak which stuck out like a sore thumb,and stood proud,enigmatic,providing a contrast as big as the boat~elbow-greased wood and rust-consumed metal;this,along with the smell,the sound of the sea…I was mesmerised,dumbstruck at the scene I beheld~I am hypnotised,repeatedly ignoring my name called,carried on the wind~(try clicking your fingers);I knew I should respond,but felt unable to do so:

I can’t tear my eyes from that wheel.



I note them sound more concerned,while continuing to hear the whoosh of the waves,

the rhythm…


They’re anxious:I snap out of it,the overriding reality I’ve got to go breaking the spell as  more waves break;I head off down the beach,saying nothing about it until now.

Behind The Wheel

It remains uncertain how it came to be up-ended,and sticking out the sand,forces concerned a mystery,the analogy of the mediaeval palisade~row of stakes driven into the ground~being the closest example I can think of;it was deep in the sand,far enough to be
suspended by it:you would expect it to be on its side;not so,and if so the wheel doesn’t stand out~in years to come I will make a discovery.

 I have an ancestor in the Navy.

 A captain.