There is an odd
Configuration of ships
This evening
At the mouth of the harbour.
I grabbed my telescope,
And headed out to see.
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the distance,
With one white mitten
Demanded to come along.
So – why not?
He knows what the telescope means,
And headed for the furthest outpoint,
Of Partridge Island.
Then, when we reached it,
He scrambled up my clothes,
And perched on my shoulder.
I assume we see the same thing.
For he started to spit
And not purr.
Three ships,
Side-by-side-by-side,
Exchanging goods of
(Perhaps)
A dubious nature.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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