Echoes of the Rusting Wharf

The iron pylons surrender to the salt, A slow devotion of flaking amber, While gulls weave circles above the ribs Of vessels that forgot the horizon.

Water lap-laps against the swollen wood, Speaking the low dialects of the tide, A murmuring archive of barnacles And silvered scales lost to the deep.

We walk the splintered planks in silence, Measuring our brief, frantic breath Against the vast, unhurried corrosion That reclaims the architecture of men.