Sue McBean

Ice cold breasts.
Misled by September sun,
chilled at sea.
Don protective layers
at earliest perception of cold.

From first sail I sensed
Mankind has always been at sea.
I feel no fear,
except performing Man Overboard drill.
Alone.

We edge forward
at pace of fast walking.
Five knots from wind.
Lifted another knot from tide behind.
Blind except for sky messages,
senses,
instrument information,
held by testimony of trusted commentators,
mappers and historians.

Planning based on
experience of years,
and lore of forefathers:
set against chaos,
and powerful tidal races.

Preparedness because
a boat cannot be parked,
only tied to earth or anchor.
Think ahead.
Tide strength, times, direction and
useful eddies.
Berth before the small craft warning unfolds.
Visibility. Sea state.

Positioning signal: to see and be seen.
Thick socks bearing letters L and R
and best sailing boots.

Seamless team.
No criticism to avoid distraction.
Rituals. Focus. Cross check.
To prevent sinking: Bolt the bulkhead,
secure the Fastnet washboards
and seal the anchor locker.

Heeled over. Sounds of crockery tumbling
and book flying.
Essential the cabin is hazard-free underway.
Careless stowing created
fall risk during inspection.
Descend companionway steps,
against roller coaster forces,
all four limbs gripping,
climbing with no harness.

The first time the cat sailed, her litter was placed,
on a floor space under our night quarters.
Stench in the night.
She searches for flies, eyes cormorants,
considers playing with waves. No fear
of dangers we see. We watch
lest she jumps when she should shelter.

Buds banned from ear use
dried the canal after showering.
Sound as rasp of metal file, and
loud squelch as boot sucking out of a deep bog.
Astonishing sight withdrawn.
Insect encased in amber wax,
antennae pointing.
Each night unbearable itch,
from what is left behind.

Fraudulent conifer played doorstep dwarf
for a decade. Released to soil,
villain qualities emerged by stealth.
Cut off it harms no more.

Beneath the music
Prufrock heard the dying fall of voices.
But there was no music.
Only bullets killing
children in a sanctuary, people in their home.

Where wild forget-me-nots bloomed yesterday,
last night a thug pulled them up.
He didn’t know.
They’ve already seeded.

We comfort each other at night.
Guarding against intruders
and foulness where it shouldn’t be.

Sue McBean is a sailor, nurse teacher, wildflower photographer, and botanist who writes creatively. Living for many years now on the north coast of Northern Ireland, she was brought up on the flat lands of the Cambridgeshire Fens. Sue writes mainly prose with a poetic style, reflecting on her life and exploring themes of sea, sailing, island life, and nature. She is interested in overlaying difficult experiences with beauty, art, and laughter, and is currently writing a memoir, a series of essays about well-being, and children’s stories. Sue felt most honoured to have a poem published earlier this year by The Chaos Section Poetry Project in Record of Dissent: Poems of Protest in an Authoritarian Age.

This poem appeared in What We Hold On To: Poems of Coping, Connection, and Carrying On — Winter 2026, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.