A late afternoon Autumn sun shines through glittering gold

and crimson falling leaves, drifting clouds leave space

for a shaft of brilliant light illuminating a contour

of wind driven waves no longer heaved by the wake

of cruising schooners and yachts.

A flotilla of stationary ghosts line the shore of the river,

vessels left standing high and dry like fish out of water

losing much of their luster and sleek honed panache

bound tightly in shrink wrap, a moribund shroud

of crystalline whiteness covers anchors hauled up,

gas tanks drained dry and sails unfurled from their boom.

All wait in repose locked on to trailers until next summer

to be dropped back into the vasty deep sea.

The boats must be toys of the billionaire boys

who raked in the dough due to market volatility

making money in hedge fund inscrutability

spinning numbers of derivatives no one can fathom,

plugged into Bloomberg, drowning in data of cooked books

and the flimflam of lease revenue bonds while

awake or in a comatose sleep

These winners must live to get away from earth

searching for sloops, yachts and catamarans

with black ebony woodwork and bars,

stocked with champagne, wine and fine cigars,

surrounded by stainless steel, velvety sofas,

a Teppinyaki style barbeque and a plunge pool Jacuzzi.

The names on the boats reflect the souls of the owners:



The boats are designed in Australia and Pembrokeshire’s waters

of the Milford estuary, allowing their captains the allure of adventure;

they’re resolute at the helm with eyes alive on the binnacle,

keeping the bow in the surge of incoming waves,

salt water spray spattering crowns on sun-broiled bald heads

and drenching manicured beards. Liberated from the folderol

noise of market gyrations, unscrambling the numbers

that dance in their heads, they can barely contain their glee

with a sangfroid view of where sky and water meet.