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) ("Glass Panes") |