|
STRANDED ON A SLABPILE
I sat on Sparkling waters,
on Crisp November mornings’
Sun Playing
on my tauts, risins and gunnels.
An old piggin’ rolling on the floorboards,
as I rock Gently to the motion of the sea.
Mooring slack, coming tight, slack again,
so Peaceful, so Quiet.
Sound of ocean on shoreline,
only broken by Echoes from ashore,
a hammer, load of lumber, axe to wood.
Smoke Gently rising from rooftops,
an outport coming alive as I rock on my moorings.
That was a long way from this old slabpile.
How long have I been here? I don’t know.
Every now and then I get a whiff of salt air
if the wind is right.
Sometimes old fishermen happen by,
place their Gnarled hands on my gunnels,
or sit while the smell of pipe fills the air.
They say:
“It’s over, never be the same again,
those were the Good Old Days”
They say.
I sit here while the rain Washes me,
the sun Splits my planks, and Peals my paint.
The wind Blows gales around me, Covers me with snow.
Hour after hour, day after day, year after year,
until I become part of this Old slabpile,
and we both become part of the grass and
“The Earth From Where We Came.”
W. King
|
 |
