Fresh Water Ports

Fresh Water Ports 

Leaning upon a rail

At the harbor

I gazed intently

Along the waterline

Of the old wooded-hulled

Sloop

Imagining all the ports she'd visited

The gales she'd weathered

And the salty surfs she'd plied.

Yet

For all her miles and years

Here she sat

Swaying softly

At her fresh water pier

No more to wander the seas

With cargoes of spices and tea.

Her ancient hull creaked

Like the bones

Of an old woman

Complaining at the most mild task.

Her furled canvas

No more to catch the seas' breeze

Was lashed to her rigging

Like the pales tresses

Of an old woman

Bound and bunned

No longer the mystery

Twinned in the eager hands

Of lovers.

Along the stern

Her name flourished

In gilt
Proudly etched
Given in majesty
And burned into the brains
Of every crew who served her
Like the Victorian name
Of an old woman
No longer bestowed to new daughters
Registered in yellowed
And fragile pages
Of maritime memory.

Old women

And aged sloops
Brittle bones
And teak decks
Wrinkled faces
And wrapped sails
Gather in mystery and memory
In a wonder
Both singular and sensuous
Swaying softly together
In fresh water ports.