I thought I liked the sea. Now I have an inkling I like the shore. The coast. The land’s end.
I like the paraphernalia of the port. The sea machines, the wetness and rust.
Smell those chains, those cables, cranes, shackles, these hooks;
holding, tugging, sagging, emerging and submerging into the murk.
Love those abandoned hulks, held fast aground, whispering a slow goodbye.
Don’t you remember? Remember us?
Listen to the sea, green. grey, Black. Hear it’s push, it’s pull, it’s quiet.
On the quay. The whistle calls the gangplank up. Hauled aboard. Wave goodbye. Goodbye.
Warps are thrown. To shore. A ship arrives. Holds unhold their wares.
Smiles, welcome, relief on wobbly legs, a look upwards at the sky. Thanks.
Lead heavy, low. The breeze a sigh.