Booms creaking as lines
Hang limp in a slight breeze,
A stained hull long since dried
Sitting, unmoving, unmoved,
Amidst several abandoned ketches,
Feeling no waves break against its bow
“Put to sea!” a passing gull seems to say,
“What joy is there in port to stay?”
But no one is there to hear this solitary plea
Silence broken only by the soft clanging
Of riggings rusted from neglect,
As the setting sun closes the day
