© 2019 by MARK WAHL.

(Based on a real event)

 

Her hair in her face, 

her cold fingers white,

the storm in her eyes

into blue, into night…

Rain in a tunnel,

sting in the spray, 

she clung to the gunnels every

slap of a wave.

They were speeding home,

as the white caps grew

on the wake and the foam

from the old,

the old Evinrude.

Just a couple of miles, 

as ravens will fly,

but seagulls beguile, 

they spin and they dive, 

they laugh from above, 

they mock, they raid

and they dance on the sun,

in a twilight parade.

Just a couple of miles

to motor on through.

They were chasing the sun

with the old,

with the old Evinrude.

 

With the old Evinrude,

with the old Evinrude,

with the old Evinrude,

the old Evinrude.

It’s an instant in space,

it’s a peck of the beak,

it’s losing your place with the

strong and the weak.

The black clouds bite,

the wild surf swallows,

the cold breath of night

settles and follows.

She was riding the bow

as the little boat flew.

It was into the rocks

with the old,

the old Evinrude.

 

Now for a time

against the abyss,

eternity passes and

nods to dismiss.

One will dance to the

ebb and the flow,

weightless, entranced,

as deeper he goes.

He goes drifting down

and out of view.

Somewhere below

with the old,

with the old Evinrude.

With the old Evinrude,

the old Evinrude,

old Evinrude,

the old Evinrude.

And one will arise from the

surf and the shock,

she’ll come out of the weeds

on the moss and the rocks;

she’ll walk out of the haze

and into the blue… 

and she’ll never remember that night 

with the old Evinrude.

With the old Evinrude,

the old Evinrude,

old Evinrude,

the old Evinrude.

 

In the fading light

there’s a gull on the wing.

I think that I might hear an Evinrude sing…

Evinrude