Let’s just say that if his boat were a man
at weekends it would wear socks with holes
a good thick wool guernsey
ragged at the stubbled neck
against a soft, overwashed shirt collar.
If his boat were a man
it would have hammers and tape measures
in abundance, own chipped mugs,
drink dark brewed coffee
fragrant with the smell of engine oil.
If his boat were a man
It would never fear bad weather
be unsinkable except in love
and sing while it worked
a steady chugging tune
of dreams and hopes.
Rain would curl its brow
and glisten on the shoulders
of a work-worn coat whose pockets sag
with string and rusted nails.
If this man standing beside me, were a boat
he would have silk sails and a hull of oak
and I would climb aboard
and set to sea without a second thought.
Amanda Hodgkinson
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