When wind is still, and tide is low,
revealed: the dark and weeping wood,
the vestiges of long ago.
Halfway down the beach, the bones
of pilings stand (where people stood)
when wind is still and tide is low.
Their histories, their lives and loves,
the sunfilled days and moons of gold?
Whispers from the long ago.
Gone their souls, and no one knows
who walked above, who swam below,
in ’86, when tides were low.
Now the stumps, in even rows,
arise like ghosts amidst the cold
to haunt us, from the long ago.
Alas! The wreckage comes and goes,
fading from our thoughts until
the wind is still, the tide is low,
and ruins rise, from long ago.
