Running ribbons of rust and gold,
Lilting waves on failing larch,
Planks scoured clean of tar and okum,
Open now to hold and foc’sle.
Etched with barnacles,
Below your waterline has fallen foul,
Settled on the silted shore,
Sifting currents not considered,
Your bilges burning in the dark.
And sacrifice no longer needed to chase away decay
First published January 2012