Masts and standing rigging
Singing in the wind like distant whistling tea kettles.
Sheets and halyards haphazardly drum along,
Keeping their own beat.
The wind fervently wrinkles the water
Invoking the rhythm of movement,
Of forward progress.
But it is we who are stationary,
These boats tucked in their slips,
Their poles ranging no lost coasts.
And the wind that sails past
Is like time
Moving through us, seeping through the cracks, hiding nothing,
Calling up the sirens.
-TW
