BLACK MAGIC
I share this poem that was written by a colleague, Gabrielle Burt, a poetess from New Zealand. We will soon be publishing a book of verse that we have both contributed to. This poem describes wonderfully the excitement and drama of the America's Cup in 2003.
The pleasure craft, like seagulls flock
while skippers take their watchful stock
of tactics by the other team
as Coutts gives up his place for Dean
With effort less, and expert ease
they read the signs and catch the breeze
that carries them up to the line
And once again, they’re dead on time!
The starter’s gun. A slingshot start
We’ve out manoeuvred them at mark
As Luna Rossa, down 4 –nil
Know in their hearts, it’s all up hill
Two lookouts sit atop their masts
To find the ‘puff ‘ - their given tasks
Just 90 metres fill the space
The wind is dying – what a race
Round the mark, a gain, again
14 knots and sixteen men
one hundred metres, gaining pace
a maverick breeze could change our place
Whipped and creaming ocean foam
Sun bleached sails, we’re nearly home
Whooshing whitecaps as we pass
Close behind us, Prada’s mast
Knotted sinews scream for time
Stalwart hearts endure the grind
as inch by painful, minute inch
Sunbronzed hands begin to winch
Our Waitemata – calm or rough
Where ‘yachties’ never get enough
of sailing P-class yachts at 10
to racing hard as full-grown men
Our boat - is magic, long and black
with tons of speed – a dream to tack
Against all odds and nations’ might
we kept our goal within our sight
Our Kiwi Team - is small, but tough
We come from Northcape to the Bluff
With courage way beyond our size
we sailed away and kept the prize!
Copyright 2000 Gabrielle P Burt