Fresh Winds and Old Piers

Mid day.
The sun bleaches the grey boards on the pier.
The water is low. Barnacles and moss clings
to the poles, sunk deep in the muck.

There are no boats here.
They left early in the morning,
a flotilla of them, each to their own fishing grounds.
Here, there is a feeling of abandonment.

You learned the art of boat building from your father.
Like most things in your life, it was a restoration,
an old thing made new, wreckage
made to gleam,

but not without work. Not without deconstruction first.
Each step documented, drawn. So much replaced.
So much jettisoned. And yet, the lines, in the end,
were the same. A thing of beauty.

It is time to build again. A new craft from old parts.
It will take time. An era of building from a design
you have not yet drawn. And yet you are certain
you will sail again, Canvas full of fresh winds.

About this poem

That moment. When the tide changes from low to coming in again. It is magical. Winds. Tides. All of it changes. You can sense it even if you are not exactly certain the timing.

It happens in lives too.

Tom