The mist swirls in omnipresent tendrils
around the weather beaten old ship,
tatters of sails hang like melting wax
from the masts that tower above the water
and tie themselves like spider webs
to the cold skeleton creaking in the wind
where she sits aground in the channel,
an eerily serene silhouette against the night
as her cannons sit motionless in defeat.




                        june 2003






Awarded by Flowing Quills ~ week of June 20-27, 2003



Awarded by Flowing Quills ~ week of June 20-27, 2003

 


Included in:



 Poetry Pages: A Collection of Voices From Around The World 
 Volume II