The Single-Handed Small Boat Sailor by Tony SmithHe has a mind like an abacus, the spirit of an anvil, the independence of a nation.
Deliriousness from isolation does not affect him for he is absolutely immune from it.
He seeks adventure along the fringe of East-Coast surf. A former Saxon battle ground for Roman turf. He bears no man – preferring nature while venturing in this wild and forgotten earth.
Rejoicing to his gusty adventure in murky salt, in this place he is king of his little ship - his vault.
He is drawn to the wonder of shimmering sea prairies, and secrets of whistling, wind-bound creeks.
While here he rests besides waving blossom, singing cuckoo and the blustering of gold-wort sheets.
He lowers sail to gather oyster, samphire and sea-shells. But, as sudden as the new dawn rises, the clink-clink of chain already echoes across marshland and silver mud, for the tide is his calling, and when anchors weigh to the new suns morning.
Pecking plover take flight, as he cruises again just out of sight, commanding his small ship like a galleon fleet, to distant boundaries of his creek infested beat.