The Sea Knew Her Name

But soft! Attend the tale of Phynella, noble dame of timbered grace,
Who o’er two decades hence hath carved her path through fair Europa’s face.
From fjord to cove, from sunlit bay to storm-swept brine she flew,
Her canvas full, her keel well-set, ‘gainst tempests fierce and blue.

Long journeys pleased her masters well, who sought not rest but range,
For wanderlust did stir their hearts, and still their course would change.
Full many a friend, with curious eye and spirit bold, came nigh,
To share the decks, to brave the swells, beneath the boundless sky.

No sea did they forsake for fear, nor wind for want of might,
In calm or gale, in frost or flame, they held their course aright.
And lo! Great Poseidon, lord of wave and surge and tide,
Did smile upon fair Phynella, his beauty on her pride.

For she, with lines both fine and true, danced swift o’er Poseidon’s floor,
A vision born of craft and soul, to sail forevermore.