On Wyeth's Below Dover
A nameless sloop in sedge grass points
Off toward a sea the sand dune hides,
The blue leached from her hull and joints,
Her cabin echoing old tides
That curled her here to tamer winds.
Her boom protests but little: short
Jibes shudder to corrosive ends.
Forgotten in the local port,
She leans like deafness to the cry
Of summering children come to race
Her decks with games of 'Capt'n Bligh,'
Till dusk-borne dinner bells sound truce.
The silence holds. A humid moon
Visits her hull then climbs away
To light atop a nearby dune
Her sightless march into decay.
2002; originally printed in Candelabrum.
Reprinted by permission of the author.