A single post still stands. raw and worn.
Alone, the last warrior against the weather and tides.
Alone. There is nothing nearby to give context or meaning,
as if it were dropped from the sky, and abandoned.
a signpost or promise or punishment? You cannot know.
It is simply there. Rugged beauty.
You hand slides down the harsh grain, still damp
from dew and the last tide. Somehow
the wood is still firm and strong: locust wood,
dark and twisted, not of this world, yet firmly planted,
strangely easy to ignore, part of the landscape
until you stop to see this odd mirror of your own soul.