Threnody

The water’s rising, waiting at the door.
The lamps are flaring. Shadow floods the floor.
Above, aloft, the last defence is tearing,
Harrowed voices soon to cry no more.
Alone, alow, the captain knows his hour,
Head-down, feels the wordless shame of fearing.
At his command no other man may cower,
Yet he remains all thrall to his despairing.
Whose grip made Faith and Reason to depart?
In whose name does he mark a borrowed time?
It is his ship, the one hand ‘round his heart.
The aged clock-hand sounds its sorrowed chime.
O feet, unmasked as clay, in iron bound –
The water rises – turn back, or be drowned...