Dry Dock


Ships sometimes lie broken in the grass
Where once they may have drifted to rest,
Or perhaps were tugged there
         By the straining of a rope.

Long blades and shoots of grass
Wind tightly across stark beams
As the wood, in response,
         Grows deeper into soil.

Horses would trample such tall grass
To a more suited state,
Dark stones and pebbles and curling waves
Would greet the keel of the ship
         With more grace

If the two did not lie here,
         Bound up.


©2016 Michael Fraley




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