Ships sometimes lie broken in the grass
Where once they may have drifted to rest,
Or perhaps were tugged there
By the straining of a rope.
Long blades and shoots of grass
Wind tightly across stark beams
As the wood, in response,
Grows deeper into soil.
Horses would trample such tall grass
To a more suited state,
Dark stones and pebbles and curling waves
Would greet the keel of the ship
With more grace
If the two did not lie here,
©2012 Michael Fraley
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