The Boat

by Raymond Fenech

Inside it my youth juggles with the ghosts
Frozen in the scent of weather-beaten wood.
Through its gaping crevices
Rust oozes from the anchor
Bleeding around a fossilized starfish.
Seagulls make a cacophonic melody
As if teasing humans for their limitations;
Proud of their natural potential
To fly, float and walk on land.
This time capsule of youth is shattered
By the gasman hooting his horn,
A weekly wakeup call for his customers.
Those summers are now like some forgotten tale
When fresh fish glittered in their armoured scales
And time hung on the fishing line,
Sinking into an abyss of green before it could age.
Wet fingers cut easily by nylon thread,
But no blood was ever drawn.
Youth was invincible I couldn’t be hurt.
Now, I am mortal again
the pain excruciating from just being human.

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