Once a good boat,
old dry
split wood,
under a
tropic sun,
we miss
the story,
in our
tragic rush
to go to get
things done.

Decrepit has a
as we wonder
for the
briefest time,
where has
the owner gone.
But then
we know.

We shed
no tears.
There are
none left
to spare.

We’ve missed
an elder soul,
who’s gone,
no great
this must
be so.

4 thoughts on “Wrecked

  1. Caught up in your poetry and photographs, each time i look upon these relics, I miss them, each one of them, those who never returned home from sea. They built their lives at the coast, fed the village and their families from the harvest caught in their nets – served with loaves of coal-stove oven baked bread.


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