Broken wood, moist yet contradictory.

Bent around the curve of an idea.

Idealistically molded to a wish thus wood becomes of body.

Wind, rain, batter its curves, endless waves pursues.

Heavy the harbour returns to it, resting eyes.

Dreaming of the stormy calm ocean that settles within.

Content in the rite of imagination, but reality is still more haunting.

During days of labour, bitter stern, broken rigging, enjoyment, love seeped through.

Intill once its use had failed, it began to break, fall in to the depths of the water it so loved.

Instead it lay stranded back to the broken wood, moist yet contradictory.

Saddened by the memories it held, grieving for its loss.

Mourning, begging for the sea to reclaim its soul.

To then be at piece, be as revered, as other vessels who fell foul to the ocean.

How disposable life and objects are when of human making.