STORM by Pete Brammer
Way out, on the Atlantic Ocean,
Bobbing up and down on the waves,
Rowed a very brave, young Irishman,
He’d been rowing, for ninety eight days.
Gradually the sky was darkening,
With a vicious storm, building up,
“I swear you will never beat me,
I’ll win, by hook or by crook.”
Flashes of lightning, lit up the heavens,
Just like the 4th of July,
Rising and falling, on 60 foot waves,
He thought he was going to die.
At its height, he was forced to take cover,
Secure in the bowels of the boat,
With all his years of experience,
This time ’twas certainly, no joke.
For the final hours, she was upside-down,
After her mast had broken in half,
He was sporting, a broken left leg,
With a large gash, down the right calf.
For a week he’d survived, in a pocket of air,
Like a baby, there in the womb,
He often wondered, would he survive?
Or would it soon be his tomb?