I built the clipper ship,
secured rock elm to iron frame
with tiny brass-like bolts,
raised fore, main, and mizzen masts,
hoisted her flaxen canvas sails,
and carved the black-haired
bare-breasted Nannie Dee
in her cutty sark
(or as we might say,
in her short chemise)
holding the grey mare’s tail.
I dreamed of steering her
through calm and stormy seas
to bring Australian wool and Chinese tea
to England’s outstretched hands.
I dreamed the race with Thermopylae
and fixed her broken rudder.
I dreamed of winds and clouds
and days of stifling drift,
of private thoughts and splendored hopes,
and the freedom of confinement
that such a life conceives.
And despite some minor obstacles,
like being a girl a century too late,
the only thing that kept me back
was I never learned to swim.
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