Sonnet of the Week: Resolution

Resolution: just the word takes me back to Whitby, a residential week with school students, and the rich historical material there was to work on. The Scoresbys, father and son, were legendary whalers, unjustly overshadowed by the fame of Captain Cook. As for the New Year variety, ‘nuff said.

Paul Francis.

That was the ship that Scoresby’s father sailed and he took on. He had the old man’s eyes and will. Add science, and you get the man to find the whaler’s grail, the Arctic Pole. Across the ice he aimed his mind’s harpoon into the centre of an Arctic waste. Missed, by a whisker. Just five hundred miles. And now, there’s me. New Year. A humbler role but I’ll make changes, mean to make them soon. I’d guess the ghost of William Scoresby smiles to see the pale ambition of my plan: less swearing, keep a diary, exercise. Such feeble good intentions, briefly placed on paper, then ignored. I too have failed.




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