Boneyard

                                                                                                                                                                 
   

                                                            

Captains long wrapped in canvas 
rot or the seas dilute their ash.

Ice and old automobiles melt

and rejoin the others to yet live again.

Squirrel and man, the deer and bird

will all crumble someday, dust returned to dust.

Even barns succumb to earths embrace

and fall slowly to their pyre.

But not so with old boats. Culled 
and unwanted  they lie wasted 
around the rocky shores, 
their eyes reddened by the waves.

Their derelict hulls slumber half raindrop 
full of skies in league with the sea.

The briny dead weep for them 
to slowly trickle home.

Only river rocks know such slow death.

A lapping mother's whetted tongue, ever licks
them thinner still. Their silvered ribs

rest upon her plate, draped in umbered 
rusting skin.

Loosen your bodice from all restraint

and free the tarnished brass.
Oh you rusting ladies of the sea, 

a table is set for you

Your maw now bids you home to sup
the ocean eats her own