Post by Administrator on Apr 6, 2021 22:00:51 GMT
A STOVE IN BOAT
This convoy run, a forlorn hope,
Just south of Greenland, three days out.
The fog came on, the weather too,
When a stove in boat came into view.
Her sails in tatters, mast broke in two,
A kapok life vest bobbed in view.
She was painted grey from stem to stern,
There was little else that we could learn.
All hands stood still on high alert,
Relieved to learn that no one was hurt.
But a wartime sea and a stove in boat,
Did precious little to give us hope.
We moved along as convoys do,
And safely made it to Loch Ewe,
We had proudly seen our duty done,
On the dreaded North Atlantic run.
Ian Adrian Millar
This convoy run, a forlorn hope,
Just south of Greenland, three days out.
The fog came on, the weather too,
When a stove in boat came into view.
Her sails in tatters, mast broke in two,
A kapok life vest bobbed in view.
She was painted grey from stem to stern,
There was little else that we could learn.
All hands stood still on high alert,
Relieved to learn that no one was hurt.
But a wartime sea and a stove in boat,
Did precious little to give us hope.
We moved along as convoys do,
And safely made it to Loch Ewe,
We had proudly seen our duty done,
On the dreaded North Atlantic run.
Ian Adrian Millar