There’s
a lost sense
to
this reach,
as
if time, not just tide,
has
retreated.
A
hulk, half sunk,
stares
from the mud,
ignored
by the estuary birds.
The
train struggles on
through
sandstone bluffs,
to
greet the bay.
Waves
break
and
you’re a kid again,
daring
the cold.
An
image pressed
against
the glass,
salvaged
from
memory.
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