Sunday, 4 March 2012

Marina by David Subacchi

Last time broken boats
stuck in silt, leaning drunkenly,
crying out for
tar and paint, rusty
stains, stench
from the fishing,
blood streaked oil on
crumbling concrete

This time gleaming yachts pulling
gently at well arranged moorings,
the tinkle of ropes against masts,
shining brass on polished wood.
Newly built apartments gazing
down at lobster pots stacked
neatly in rows next to hoists
lined up like gibbets
along the harbour wall.

David Subacchi, Wales


Anonymous said...

Love the contrast.

Poetry24 said...

I can relate to such changes, David. Well written.

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I love it.