Fleet

My paternal battlefleet is formed in line ahead,
led by my great-grandfather—a
mid-Victorian ironclad, clunky but
potentially vicious—followed by my
grandfather—a sleek Jutland battlecruiser
in his prime—and lastly my father—a
workhorse but fast, a Leander-class frigate perhaps—
making signals to me to
“Put on all speed” and to “Close up”.

He wants me to join that proud if
obsolete line of battle, all of whom
fought on into their nineties, but
whose number I shan’t make up, my
seams already sprung, the pumps
struggling to keep me afloat,
surrounded by tenders doing
little good.

It’s getting dark and already my
great-grandfather is hull-down on the
beckoning horizon, the fleet,
jauntily dressed over-all, now
silhouetted against a
reddening sky. There is a
mounting swell and
disconcerting noises from
below deck. Out of the
thickening darkness a
signal lamp winks—
“God speed”.