My Mother who, thanks to dementia, can’t remember more than one minute of the immediate past, one day recounted this poem in its entirety for our pleasure. It is the product of a great mind, recalled by another now sadly broken one. Just those two things together would do the trick, but the poem is a cracker all by itself…
Quinqueremes of Niniveh, from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine
with a cargo of ivory, and apes, and peacocks
sandalwood and cedarwood and sweet white wine
Stately Spanish galleon, coming from the Isthmus
dipping through the tropics by the palm green shores
with a cargo of diamonds, emeralds and amethyst,
topazes and cinnamon and gold moiodores.
Dirty British coaster, with silt-caked smoke stack
Batting through the channel in the mad march days
With a cargo of Tyne coal, road rails, pig lead,
firewood, ironware and cheap tin trays.
We salute you Mr Masefield, Mum…
Tags: dementia, pleasure, poems, quinqueremes, recall
