Asante - REVISED Day 12 of never ending poem

Day 12s the day I changed my job. No more First Mate for me. I put on my medics hat. Cos that’s what I am at sea. One of the crew has hurt himself. No blood and guts and gore. Just every time he goes topside, the last step he does ignore. He’s had three days from the first aid kit. But that’s not been enough. So out I’ve got the big gun bags. For which nothing is too tough. He’ll be fine, there’s nothing more, that a hospital could do. Especially as the casualty, is a medical doctor too. Today the slight disaster. Was my sextant took a tumble. All the way down the companion steps. And landed in a bundle. The box had thrown the sextant out. It all looked to be in bits. But thankfully it was not as bad. Or I’d have lost my wits. So I had another day of searching, for a boat far out at sea. To calibrate it once again, as on a horizon it had to be. The fishing rods stayed stowed today. There may be no more catches. Cos the weed that now surrounds us, are in greater and greater patches. We are counting down the days to go. The novelty has worn off. Of a starlit sky and waning moon. For everyone’s had enough.


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