Derelict boats caked with years
of neglect and tugs who haven't pulled
anything for such a long time
they've forgotten what they were built for -
sit moored to an ancient, still
floating log raft dock that runs
this stretch of the river, a corridor hidden
from landlubber's view. A boat grave
yard for shy, hiding, hermit crab people
who sense or hear my paddle as it dips
who sense or hear my paddle as it dips
feather light strokes. Do they keep watch
all hours? As I move upstream
they peer out dark openings
they peer out dark openings
wary and on high alert, somewhat
territorial, but then return
friendly waves as I come abreast and
pass on. Their boats wallow and groan
on the turning tide. Moorings
pull and stretch, aching to follow
me back to the scouring sea.
