On the Waterfront

On the Waterfront

By the narrow pier that baffles the grey sea,
the old boats lean on the reclaimed boardwalk,
their sails bruised by a thousand salt‑crusted nights.
A lone figure, cap snug, walks the worn‑tread strip,
his boots scuffing the crumbling concrete—
the rhythm of the tide beating in time.

A gull cries over a weather‑moulded wheelhouse,
where smoke still rises from a forgotten cargo‑crane.
Ferry boards display placards in bold Street‑colour,
echoing the brass signal of distant engines.
The new crew figure in navy, the old in faded caps,
all swapping stories on the wharf’s decaying rail.

Sidewalk cafés spill coffee into the chill draft,
latticed cafés, cups half‑full of strong brew,
neighbours chatter in low‑sounded barbs and banter.
The harbour light flickers—red, amber, a steady pulse,
pressing the blackness into a dreamless sea.

The tide comes and goes, a quiet conversation,
nursing the gulls’ nests and the sweat‑smudged eyes of the crew.
When the sun sets, the black‑backed ships sleep,
and the waterfront sighs with the wind,
a single line: “home, however far you roam.”