On the beaches at Chatham, a few ruins remain.
Defiant and oddly beautiful,
never built for this, but neglected to the point of no return.
A few more seasons, and they will be flotsam,
driftwood for campfires,
frightfully human in their strength and decline,
made for the survival of storms,
turning grey with age, weak with abandonment,
we stand, waiting for someone to care
enough to save us before the next storm.
About this poem
Abandonment is a terrible thing. Neglect is a terrible thing. Love, the real thing, is a restorative. The difference between life and mere survival.
The picture was taken at Chatham, on Cape Cod, MA.