in the winter morning’s
The boat yard
is a lonely place.
Hulls are awkward hulks
beached on parking lots,
stringers and fiberglass
settled on blocks and cradles.
Some boats still endure the water,
finger slips to test pilings;
ice-eaters drone in the briny dark.
On land they are shrink-sealed in plastic
or framed under bulky tarpaulins,
riding out the wintry bombardment,
awaiting next summer’s voyages.
Others lay abandoned
by Captains who are no more