where the writers are
Ghost Ships

We find them sometimes,
drifting at sea
or maybe just off the coast,
vessels without captains,
not a soul, except
that of the boats, and they
never tell us a thing.
There’s a trawler, the High Aim,
loaded with three tons
of tuna, rotting now,
down near Perth.
In a quarantine bay,
police search her, look
for a struggle (piracy maybe)
but find no sign.
There is fuel and food,
just no one aboard, and she’s
come far, three thousand miles.
Authorities think she probably
steered herself. But what
of the crew, where did they go?
The cops, flat out,
don’t know. Her berths
are empty, the bare deck clean.