Old Piers and Hope
The pier is rickety,
leaning with the tide,
sitting at the edge between sea and land.
Its boards are worn and grey,
improbably firm, littered
with broken shells, droppings
by seagulls who break their shellfish dinners
on the hard, mostly abandoned wood.
take their pickings
and leave the hard-edged remains.
Low tide and the pier hovers high above
the last bit of water.
Stand there long enough and you can feel the tide change,
feel it in your feet, in your bones,
in the shifting of pylons and creaking of boards.
You can see the gull’s offerings shimmy
as they caw at you to leave.
And leave you will.
You do not need to experience the full change of the sea,
the high mark of tides.
It is enough to know it the shift has begun.
About this poem
Sometimes a poem just comes. I can’t tell you why or what it is about. It just shows up. So this one means whatever meaning you give to it.
But then again, in the end, that is true of all poetry.
The picture was taken just outside of Rye, New Hampshire.