Faithful and True
Laid up long since was the 'Faithful and True'.
She'd been Jeffson's barge since "Twenty-
Two."
Look hard and you'll find her in Whitewall Creek
A hulk, deck rotted, but her hull still sleek.
Built in
For nigh forty years she worked river and sea.
Spritsail-rigged and Jerry Jeffson's pride
Even motorised her sail spirit ne'er died.
In January of Nineteen-seventy-two
Spring tide waters came minus, points few
Unstartling rise attending below datum fall
Affected shoreline objects one and all.
You could almost walk Ruffen's ancient ford,
And thought Jeffson was dying his spirit soared
He was not yet ready to lie to his bier
His mind reached out and he strode Strood pier.
The topmost room where Jeffson lay ill
Has a bay window with wrought flower grill,
In the house on the hill, it lies at the crest,
The bell and the church locate the rest!
With failing strength he swung his glass
Sweeping the ships as Gashouse did pass,
But his inner long sight over the hill did seek
To the Faithful and True in Whitewall Creek.
He'd got his orders and he longed for the ebb
Out of all that had been life's spiders web.
And the 'Strong Man' of the river sensing his need
Stressed the hulks moorings and did the deed.
At the next high water she 'took-up' and was free
Wind and tide set for the Swatch and the Leigh
On the first of the ebb in the afternoon
With Jeffson aft her keel hummed a tune.
Jeffson remembered when he'd raced for turn,
Or lounged in the 'Mill' as though time to burn
Then left his pint to slip 'Starvation' before
The crowd turned out for the ebb to un-moor.
Of the banks where he'd anchored in company to wait
Giving signs of below-for-the-night as bait
Only to hove his anchor, wet-ragging the pawl
And away to the Pool before they could swear or
haul.
Single minded Jeffson, the contumacious
Seldom if ever known to be gracious
Except perhaps to 'Him' in the 'Reach' above
Who gave him all weathers for his only love.
With the wind on the quarter she made |Chatham
reach
Jeffson felt the helm, eyeing luff and leach
A sapper by Gundulph's stone looking west
Saw 'Faithful and True' upon her last quest.
He mad for the [hone and called the Authority
And a man and a boat were sent with alacrity.
'You know' said the sapper, 'she'd have gone on the
tide.
Said a sceptic; 'she'd have drifted a bit, but only
to bide.'
So they took her in tow as the twilight came
And she towed like queen, stem up and game
As they brought her back to Whitewall Creek
And thought the deck gaped holes, the hull didn't
leak.
In the graveyard of barges without rigging or mast
With springs and wires they made her fast
But the effort was wasted she would ne'er again
seek
To leave the soft-bedded mud of Whitewall Creek.
For high on the hill Jeremiah lay dead
Eyes closed, hasp-tooth o'er lip and spirit fled
To sail with ageless vessels in reaches blue
He and his spiritsail, the 'Faithful and True'.