Black Anchor

Photo by Diego Catto on Unsplash

When you picture a pirate, you think a coarse man:

A peg for a leg, with a whiskey in hand.

His clothes are tattered; he wears a patch o’er one eye,

A pistol in his belt, a rusted sword at his side.

His speech is unschooled, the content foul;

He stumbles about, his singing a howl.

His skin is weathered from his days at sea;

When he sails out of port, it’s good riddance to he.

What’s this now? A great ship sails in.

Grand sails slightly billow in the gentle wind.

A well-dressed lad with his shoulders held high,

Steps off the plank, a smart gleam in his eye.

His sharp jaw is unshaded by yesterday’s stubble,

His young step brisk—a march on the double.

Perched on his head is a tricorn hat,

And in its curl, rests a feather fat.

His coat is fitted, his tall boots shined,

His black hair kept, and his blue eyes kind.

He bows to the lady and flashes a smile;

He salutes to the officer, so as not to rile.

This stranger to town, how charming is he!

From where did he come, upon the vast sea?

The dark shrouds the port; foul play is afoot.

A wise one will in his home stay put.

White fog fills the street; a cold wind howls.

Somewhere in the distance, a stray dog yowls.

Harsh laughter rings from one of the pubs—

Friendly it is as a bear with cubs.

Follow the sound to a wooden door;

From behind its strength comes a party’s roar.

Orange light glows through the yawning gaps;

In the tavern’s hearth, a fire crackles and snaps.

Take care, dear friend, when you venture in

Amid the folks and the riotous din.

“Have a drink, Mai’t,” says the tender to you.

So, you flip him a shining coin or two.

He slides you a mug with froth overflowing;

The beer tickles your lips, afore down your throat slowly flowing.

You turn and survey the teeming room:

A place just a step on the way to the tomb.

The pub door opens; frigid wind blasts in.

But more real than the cold, is the fear struck within.

In treads a tall figure, and a great hush descends.

A dread does his silent presence send.

Clad head to toe in ominous black—

On the wood floor, his boot heels clack.

There’s something familiar in his confident stride;

Perhaps also in his blue glittering eyes.

But different tonight than what was seen this morning,

Is his glossy dagger, sharp and foreboding.

A long-barreled revolver is tucked into his belt.

Though he says nothing, his evil is felt.

For night reveals what daytime hides:

The true colors of him who arrived at high tide.

Now you see what you didn’t before,

And you wish you ne’er opened that tavern door.

For here stands before you the Terror of all,

Though handsome, noble, and strikingly tall.

You heard of his feats on the perilous high seas;

The tales of this man carry on the breeze.

He can drink a keg and ne’er stagger a step,

Defy a gale, never lose a bet.

Not once has taken a captive alive,

Has an impossible will to win and survive.

Sword and gun never miss a mark;

His deckhands cower at their bite and bark.

Beware of his suave and poisonous talk,

For from him men rarely live to walk.

You rush to the door to arouse the alarm,

But fingers of steel close around your arm.

Your gaze meets one of cold and hate,

And in your heart, you know you’re too late.

To you your death has just been handed—

for the young Black Anchor has in port now landed.