Ferrying Hope
The sea is choppy tonight
Waves break in distant foam
Rolling in the devil wind
A wind that spits cold
And rattles the soul
In the gloaming lights twinkle
A ferry bound for freedom
Rolling and pitching
Ignorant of the wind-fists
That beats its prow
What price freedom?
A passport and a hundred-pound ticket,
P&O comfort and warmth
Or thousands of Euros in
A freezing inflatable dingy?
The ferry plows on
Riding the swell, pitching black
A silhouette outlined under a clouded moon
Do the passengers peer from portholes
And wonder who waits on a desolate beach?
We leave in the small hours, no more delays
The moon is good, don’t worry about the waves
Tomorrow you’ll be tasting Fish n Chips
But first a crossing, dodging the ships
That threaten to engulf and swallow us
The smuggler leaves, a smile made of
Money and misery, and despair.
Inflate the dingy, prepare to launch
Crest the waves, pitch and roll and hang on
Gripping the vomit covered sides with fear
The wind is no friend tonight
Dawn lies 2 hours hence, first light
Slowly breaking from the grey light
But the gusts rip through our shivering hearts
Wrapped in life vests, sodden blankets and fear
Beneath us an ink black grave
Touch the water death, the vengeful waves
A sudden broadside and we may
Come to eternal rest
Washed up on England’s shore
Hour by hour the ferries pass
The tankers cross unconcerned
With the small fry of humanity
The deflated, the desperate,
The orange life and death vest refugees
The smuggler said just a chance of a shower
But spray soaked, the weather turns
Downpours continue hour upon hour
They’ll be no sunrise over the White Cliffs
Just a dull lifting of the grey
Silence falls, knuckles turn white
Through vice grips, holding on to hope
And cold that penetrates every heartbeat and rasping breath
The rain abates and the clouds part
Momentarily the dawn flickers with Dover light
Almost there and spirits lift
Come on, let’s race the ferries
There’s customs to clear
Any Duty Free to declare, anything
Illegal on board? – through the Red Channel
The Dead Channel, 21 miles of
Unrelenting fear, watching the waves
Sensing the wind toying with our lives
But are the lights getting closer, brighter?
To be shore, to be shore.
The cruelty of distance,
The looming cliffs within reach
But another hour at least until
That pebbled beach of English
Rounded stones and freedom
Waves of relief and exhaustion
Pass through us as we feel the shingle
Shift with our footfall
Off to my right, a ferry docks
And we too become the disembarked.
The arrived.
