A gray shell now, she echoes laughter's shadows,
where bronzed men had walked upon her decks,
and peered deeply into wells of water,
with sun crusted salt upon their necks.
They searched the constant gray blue hills before them
for silent silver flashes of the sun.
And held close the nets that they had woven
in winters past before the salmon run.
Still in the evening haze she sits and listens,
to old men waiting on the docks,
smoking pipes and telling summer stories while
tracing flights of lonely seagull flocks.
Quietly, she blends into the harbor,
and sleeps as she is rocked there by the waves,
dreams of times she proudly held the echoes of
strong young cries from those sunny days.
© Montana Blue
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