beating, reaching, running

beating, reaching, running

heading south
into the southerly
mains'l and jib
sheeted tight
sucked into the wind
spray like white fire
scalding our skin
as we tack
and tack

ready about!
(mind the boom)
onto a broad reach
heeling deep
astride the gunwale
keel exposed
raising the genoa
relaxing the sheets
like flying fish
ecstatic in speed
a force five
flushing us easterly

turning north
it's as if the wind dies
as we run with it
spinnaker like
blocking the sun
we relax back
into the cockpit
tiller untaut
seemingly at standstill
but doubling our knots
beer in hand
heading for home
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.


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