Villanelle on foundering

A ghost, no moorings, rudder swinging wide
As moorless, drifting as a crewless ship 
Will wind bring purpose, or the rising tide?

She swings by in the mist but cannot hide
The slapping of the ropes loosed from their grip.
A ghost, no moorings, rudder swinging wide.

Worn ensigns fade where once they flew with pride. 
Sun-rotted, wormy, tattered pennants flip.
Will wind bring purpose, or the rising tide?

Where was she bound, what bounty held inside
Where now bilge sloshes, briney bulkheads drip?
A ghost, no moorings, rudder swinging wide.

In captain’s chambers, nothing there beside
Crumbling letters of marque that launched the trip.
Will wind bring purpose, or the rising tide?

No sextant, map or astrolabe to guide
The helmsman’s eyeless stare and bony grip.
A ghost, no moorings, rudder swinging wide
Will wind bring purpose, or the rising tide?