Art on the Shore

The pylons stand like ungainly giraffes at low tide,
legs akimbo and uncertain.
It seems impossible that they once held piers,
straight and strong, that they held boats firm
through sea storms and summer squalls.

And yet, here they are,
their truth no less true for the improbability
and damage of neglect.
Too difficult to remove,
too expensive to repair,
they are ruins in the fog with their own broken beauty,
art on the seashore, waiting
to be discovered
again.

About this poem

About old piers. About old people. About broken people.

Tom