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Mac OLIVER
ALFRED'S TESTAMENT
Alfred, a planter, marred by years, verging
On the tears of another age, with urgent
Gasps throated out last words to his three sons:
You needn't become the landsman your old man's been,
Men, you needn't love these fields just
As I have, though by the force of will they
May turn you a yield, you wielding your
Resourcefulness. Trusting that yes, all one
Reads of the sea enchants, at a distance,
Stay clear of it. Imagine a sailor's
Day, three years parting, nothing other than
Horizons of waves. Your fears are fair. Not
A man alive left on those waves lives well
As you will home on land with your wives
And stoves. Even as your mother's hearth still
Pleases, opposed to say, a second wife's
Displeasure, bent on hard'ning strife, so
The land's a life of relative ease, opposed
To the sea's cruel measure,
The restive ocean's thirsty knife.