Eight Holes in the Coracle (Bunghole)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Eight holes in the coracle, waiting for my hands.
Pemba blessed the wax last Tuesday, under the full moon of April 2009.

[Verse 1]
The coracle sits in the cooper's shed, timber walls damp from the tide.
Thomas Johnson knew this, back in 1637, when he wrote about the bilge.
He said the bunghole must be at the swell, where the lees settle clear.
I count them: one, two, three, up to eight, each bored with an iron bit.
The hand drill turns slow, shavings curl like oak whispers.
Fifty degrees this dawn, my fingers chilled on the hide.

[Chorus]
Bunghole, bunghole, plug the sea away.
Monk-blessed wax, warm in my palm, seals you tight.
No water creeps in, no secrets leak out.
Just the coracle and me, floating on Point Nemo's edge.

[Verse 2]
The mallet taps the wooden bung, two inches wide, smoothed by callused thumbs.
Smell of beeswax and salt, honeyed blessing from Pemba's chant.
In 1597, Johnson shaped staves with his adze, same as I do now.
The bung starter pries old plugs free, echoes in the empty cask.
Eight holes, like eyes watching the waves, waiting for my care.
Barley bread crumb on the bench, my breakfast forgotten.

[Bridge]
Why eight, you ask? For the storms of May, when the sea rises hungry.
Thomas died in 1644, but his words float here, in this shed.
I address you, little holes, guardians of the hull.
Keep us dry, keep us safe, with your silent plugs.

[Verse 3]
Caulking done, wax cools smooth against the rough edges.
Fingertips trace the seal, listening flap of skin on my elbow tingles.
Pemba smiled when he handed the wax, said it holds more than water back.
The coracle knew the way, even with holes unplugged once.
Now, ready for the water, latitude forty-eight south.

[Outro]
Eight bungholes, sealed and blessed.
Float on, old friend.