The winch is silent now
holding its memories in rust
and the salty piracy of time.
Angle-poised, it views the open sea
beyond the gape
of harbour walls,
no longer visited by tides of sail.
The storms still come,
in their season,
bringing new afflictions
in blunderbustuous fire.
And the grappling hook
of the breathing sea
fluxes and flows,
hale and hearty,
vigorously crowing
its perpetual youth.
The
winch is silent now
in the stasis of its rusty robe
and the calloused hands
that no longer visit.
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