HMS Tally-Ho!

The submarine
launched in ’42,
Dad sailed, mid-East,
post-war skewed:

He, first-born,
ten years before,
his boat, laid up,
’67, no more.

Also keel-hauled,
twenty years on,
his grey ashes lost,
wide Solent-blown.

The padre’s job,
thin dust he threw,
across the shrunken
Fleet Review,

over ghost of anchors,
ones long-thrown,
all now lost,
a sunken Tally-Ho!

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