One of my first literary efforts. The language is stilted, but the story is true.

The Village Wordsmithy

Fingers of fog close into fist,
a blanket woven from the mist.
Shifting shapes in white abound.
tarry not, push tow to ground.

Be not enticed, precaution to toss
bravery to prove, to please the boss.
Too great is the risk to life and limb
caused by vainglory, or a moment’s whim.

Oh, I do bore thee, your petulance shows.
On then, to my tale, ere restlessness grows.
Pay heed now, how a man’s unearned pride
created great danger, a near-fatal ride.

Three decades have passed, a new century’s turned,
since the river surrounding the Mary Bourg burned
Even now, though dimmer of sight, limbs sore and aging,
young still is the smoke, the flame’s loud raging

The river ran swift, by spring snow-melt fed.
Mate and new deckhand, fresh risen from bed
were told by the captain over midnight brew
“Just relax, clean the galley, whatever have you.”


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