spanish galleon

how still your sails
in this cloister,
how quiet your guns,
and empty your decks –
like all great prowling things
here you are, at last,
idle in darkness
and visited rarely –
gone is the roll of waves
and roil of bleached
and battered men,
gone is the toil
and labour of life,
your crew
gone to rest,
in peace, in strife,
in soil or sea,
and you,
your pieces,
pinned and dismembered,
cross-cut and labelled,
just waiting,
for me.

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