Sailors and Marines, 
Builders of ancient triremes,
Still ply their rough and wooden craft,
Ancient pines, knotted and proud,
Crafted into hulls fore and aft.

Down a treacherous rocky path,
Rubble and scree strew the way,
Hair pin bends; car tires protest.

A lonely cove that time forgot,
Skeletal hulls and wooden hulks,
Testament to the hand craft art,
Ne’ery a machine in sight, 
Only bevel, chisel and sun browned artisanal delight.

Odysseus’ lost ships once sought sanctuary here,
Storm tossed at Poseidon’s delight; prized away from the fleet,
To prove to the Ithacan King,
That mortals are but play things of Olympian might,
Samian boat builders repaired the masts and back to sea to build a horse.

Through the millennia from father to son, the noble art is passed along,
But the passionate flame is an ember now,
All the young people have gone.