A few boats, seaworthy, fish empty,
rock at their anchors, harbour hungry
for the churning waters and open sea,
feeling the scaly bodies squirming on
the deck gasping for dying breaths.
——–
The tide raises eager expectations
and politely, bobbing slowly pulling
at the bondage, she lifts her prow to
proudly show she is prettily prepared,
to go and joyously seek to serve.
——
A prod at the stiff stern and a sound
of heavy boots pounding the creaky
worked, wood frame stretching corking
til timbers quiver, solemnly shaking.
The engine spluttering then stuttering
——-
Guttering, as its motor coughs and
sneezes, billowing black smoke
and then steadily it chunters and
moves the butting boat into the
seething channel, as tides fight
—
currents as they charge up the
salty beach turn and surge up to
her gunnels, while angry hungry
gulls squawk and scream in the
wind whipped waves, hurling their
—-
invective at the small vessel as it
faces the press of ghostly wrecks
and calls. She stumbles and settles,
jostled by the churning waters as
greedy nets fill with sun sparkling
—–
scales and flipping fins, raising a
sea salt smell as they flap and flip
in the drying airless air. The wood
creaks and groans as the tiller tilts,
turns for home. The anchor weighed,
—-
she is silent now, and as the sea
shallows its waters, feeling the tug
of the brightening moon, emptying
the bay of billows, leaving muddy
puddles and the boat tips to the
side,
stranded,
willing,
waiting.