There is a touch of irony in it.
A touch of chaos.
Seagoing craft crammed in a workshop,
bereft of their sails,
their rudder unattached and hanging on a wall,
rigging put away for the meantime.
There is work to be done.
Ribs to be sistered.
Calking to be replaced, cracks to be filled,
barnacles to be scraped.
Paint, functional more than beautiful,
to be layered on lapstrake.
Work to be done in this offseason,
before she is fit to sail again,
better for this time held captive,
waiting for her yearning to break loose
and horizons to appear once again,
not just possible, but real.
About this poem
I am feeling like a boat in dry dock right now. There is work to be done, but what I want to be is sailing.
The picture was taken at Mystic Harbor, CT.