Salt marshes and high summer, where the boat
was settling into mud, slanted as though
posed for a photograph; we saw it first
as almost ship-shape, thirty years ago,
its hull intact. Wild tides and winter storms
ate out its heart, dissolving the old wood
into this mandorla - blackened stumps,
sketching a boat in outline. Where it stood,
keeled to the river-bed, this curve of stakes
holding the bladder-wrack and strands of weed
is all thatís left; no trace of nets or catch,
no remnant of the crew; their skill, their speed.
The water slaps and, softly, by the posts
small ripples quiver like attendant ghosts.
D A Prince
If you have any thoughts on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear them.