Issue 20, Autumn-Winter 1958-1959
Out of the jetty slip the dark bark rides,
As I more leave, each day, the man-leafed tree,
Hearing the Norse tell how they sail the sea.
Each day I see the ropes between us cut,
“A ship, for safety, must have one plank sorb,”
As the Norse say, “The Hanged Man died on sorb.”
I leave no man, but from all men I part.
Setting forth gently on the boiling water.
Not more alone, but less; as the Norse say,
“Thor died on sorb; the sorb is Thor’s salvation!”