The Dinghy
A weathered dinghy sits silently at dock,
Its rope worn, frayed with years of use.
How still the calm that pervades.
How gentle the reflection.
Its graying boards exude a simple reminder
of lazy summer afternoons spent basking in the sun
and evenings passed under the might of nature's emotion.
A small current ripples through the water,
setting the dinghy bobbing quietly,
loosening the last of the hemp fibers binding it to the pier.
A soft breeze ruffles the air,
no more than the breath of an infant,
and mist shrouds the dinghy as it passes the horizon.
|
|
