Poem: Old Piers and Promises

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Old Piers and Promises

It would be possible, I suppose, to replace the old pier.
It would take work, and time, and money, and patience.
The art of wooden piers, after all, is nearly lost
in the glitz of steel and lights and plastic,
in the promises of false things and the demands
of instant gratification and the need to be, always be,
cheaper. Not in price so much, as in what it costs the makers.
Profit, after all, is king.

It would be possible, I suppose, to replace the old pier,
to recapture the flavor of the thing, the way it shifts with the tides
and moans with the coming and going of water,
that strange sense of being one with the world around it,
not a foreign thing, imposed and proud and far too elusive,
but of the landscape, valuing it and being part, truly part.
But there is listening to be done, and time, so much time
coming to understanding with the tides and life,
there is a need to believe in the value of maintenance,

that a thing is not done and left to degrade.
There is always work to be done, always,
and not done, there is erosion, failure, and collapse.
It takes work to keep the promises made,
work too few are willing to do for it is not dramatic
or flashy. There is no glory in it.

I for one, like the old things. Whether manners or kindness,
biblical beliefs that every man has value simply by virtue
of God giving them breath, or more physical things
like old houses. Old cars. Oil lamps and manual tools.
They are worth preserving, and when
they collapse from lack of care.
It is worth the effort to do the work
of rebuilding.

About this poem.

Not about piers, but if you like the image, by all means, go with it.


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