Abandoned,
listing in the mud,
the rent within her side
is hidden from the questing sun.
Mastless,
curling paint still green,
but dry and brittle as autumn leaves
flaking from the tree-wrought hull.
Forlornly
from the wheelhouse roof
a remnant of a guardrail juts
sky blue, where yet untouched by rust
Rope,
frayed as matted cobweb,
sickly hangs from algoid planks
wind-dancing in decay with rotting wood.
Wheelhouse
window smashed to frosted beads
still clinging to the central frame,
but only empty sockets left elsewhere.
Dignity.
Letters proudly stencilled,
brown as old dry blood
defiantly at odds with fate. A name.
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