Captains Three

We sailed a pebbled sea in The Weeping Willow
with our Captains Three and a crew of me.
I was four, practically five, a cabin boy blue,
too young to do more than cry. Why
they even took me I can only guess,
emotional blackmail - no less would suffice
to explain how I shared their Corsairs’ domain.
The Jolly Jacks’ were my sisters three who
were a little older, naturally, so I was the crew.
That gave them scope to do, had they the wont,
legitimately those despicable things sisters
think are fun. I had to run pointless errands,
walk the plank, clear crocodiles from
the dank pools at the docks edge
and still yet, pile pebbles so they could
cross the creek and not get their feet wet.
I regret I did not play the game and complained,
bellowed wretchedly they said, enough to bring rain.
Thankfully the ship never put to sea, it remained
moored at its creekbank dock; as steady
as a rock was our supple barque, anchored
to the Mangatoitoi Valley stream
that bubbled by our Ngatapa home. I never
sailed it alone, and even when my brother
could walk the grassy banks to the dock,
somehow we’d talk ourselves out of putting to sea.
It wasn’t right without Captains Three.
© I.D. Carswell