Winter Rest
Jan 7 2024
The port has frozen over.
The big lakers
with their bright red hulls
have all departed,
heavily laden
belching exhaust.
I miss seeing the ships
tucked into their cozy harbour
like little matchbox toys,
twinkling cheerfully
like a city of light
against the dark night sky.
The squat tug
powered by two massive diesels
and sheathed in battered steel plate
no longer chugs back and forth,
breaking the ice
and churning through the slurry.
Too thick, too cold,
even for this
persistent little workhorse.
The sailboats, of course
are all onshore
or frozen into their slips.
No more festive sails and sleek hulls
heeling through the froth
in brilliant summer sun,
looking like little water bugs
flitting this way and that.
I would stand and watch,
wishing I was out there
joining in the fun.
But now
the bustling harbour
is at its winter rest,
a flat expanse of white
under dull grey skies.
No reason now
to take in the view.
Or wouldn’t be
if this fallow season
hadn't a beauty all its own.
So I interrupt a busy day,
taking my time
and feeling the calm
wash quietly over me.
A couple of gulls
who somehow survive the cold
have taken wing,
swooping low
in acrobatic flight
in pleasing synchrony.
I envy their freedom,
coasting easily
on the dense winter air
with the place all to themselves.
Watch them head out
to open water
too far for me to follow.
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