At Anchor (Poetry)

They lie in rows — all members of the club
moored up together in the evening’s calm
’though joining up was never what they planned
belonging here as random as those tides
that brought them to this harbour, had them stay.

They share a knowledge — seldom speak of it —
resigned to sense the distant ebb and flow
and watch the far horizon, count the clouds
as grey as ghost ships passing through a fog
of anaesthetic, not a soul on board.

The tenders come and go with gentle waves
that barely rock the vessels, soothing sides
too frail to weather squalls, the planking holed
nothing left that’s strong and watertight —
give comfort in warm shallows, light grown dim.

The ward’s a boatyard terminal with wrecks
that rot too slowly in each captain’s mind
the names still proud upon each shrinking hull
and hearts too long denied the open sea
pray soft the anchor chain is rusting through.