40°South.
A story bold but not all in glory told, fled unsung his silent moving lips,
this rusty man in a rotten ship, slipped benth an oily sea, without ripple, trace, or history.
The closing wake forever on it's maker shut.
The circling gulls move on.
On same calm days, the sun's bright rays, make me think I saw, far below, a shifting shape, that once was him.
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