Boats at anchor

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.