Little Poems for Dark Days #16
In the shallows of the bay this morning
a white mast clanged in the wind,
the hull sinking or sunk,
someone's little pleasure boat
dipping into barnacled obscurity.
That's the way of things, I suppose,
to disappear or break
or take on water and sink.
But it's always a fresh sorrow,
whether it's a boat, a life,
or a nation.