Western Harbour

Old maids bob and curtsey on the lap of waves
calmed in this quieted chapel.
They have seen the wrath of open court,
danced a jig to storm, a gust
wailed skirl through rig and sail.

Skittish still, through peeling paint
they may recall argent shoals snagged
in their wifey skirt of corded lace,
trailed to scoop a benison,
spent accordingly.

Tacked together, a battle-scarred hymn
of patchwork skin furrows land and brow,
tamed to tastes, enclosure of minds to feed
a nation.

My eye roves to blackened Sage, height and age
respected by kiss of mist and soft footfall;
head raised to catch the weep of heaven,
tears to replenish our dwindling pool.