For the Commander of the “Eliza”

Routine patrol off West Mayo; sighting

A rowboat heading unusually far

Beyond the creek, I tacked and hailed the crew

In Gaelic. Their stroke had clearly weakened

As they pulled to, from guilt or bashfulness

I was conjecturing when, O my sweet Christ,

We saw piled in the bottom of their craft

Six grown men with gaping mouths and eyes

Bursting the sockets like spring onions in drills.

Six wrecks of bone and pallid, tautened skin.

“Bia, bia,

Bia”. In whines and snarls their desperation

Rose and fell like a flock of starving gulls.

We'd known about the shortage but on board

They always kept us right with flour and beef

So understand my feelings, and the men's,

Who had no mandate to relieve distress

Since relief was then available in Westport –

Though clearly these poor brutes would never make it.

I had to refuse food: they cursed and howled

Like dogs that had been kicked hard in the privates.

When they drove at me with their starboard oar

(Risking capsize themselves) I saw they were

Violent and without hope. I hoisted

And cleared off. Less incidents the better.

Next day, like six bad smells, those living skulls

Drifted through the dark of bunks and hatches

And once in port I exorcised my ship

Reporting all to the Inspector General. […]