boats
a few feet from the shore
in the sand, half-buried --
a boat with a broken keel;
the last chips of paint,
faded blue like the sky that surrounds it,
clinging precariously 
to the warped gray-weathered wood,
like sailors reluctant 
to leave their lost ship.
a silent oar raises its splintering stem
feebly out of the silt;
wary signal 
to the fishing fleet setting sail, 
white masts proud in the sky
their wake's fantails
crisscrossing dances of light
waves touching now and again 
the crumbling hull, 
a greeting for an old friend.
Jon Bohrn (1999)

 

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