Marina Marin

like a graveyard
of forgotten purpose
a thousand masts
sails furled
packed like sardines
fender to fender
row after row
a forest of masts
in a maze of cul-de-sacs
dockland suburbia
a sea of masts immobile
remembering

the wind swings by
for a visit
and the masts sing
the graveyard comes alive
in an orchestra of wind
a constant percussion
of halyards
clank, bang, ping
against masts
a subsonic echoing zing
as the wind
soars through windmills
like pinwheels
wailing their eerie arias
wind whistling between loose lines
like the humming thrum
of breathing
over the top of a bottle
but higher pitched
shrieking through the harbor
a fluttery flap
stacatto rap
as flags and pennants snap
a wind machine finds
a lower tone
a playing card
in the spokes
of a bicycle wheel
the ratchety roar
of a ruffed grouse
leaving the earth
beneath it all
the underlying everpresent groan
of the warps
straining at their cleats
like a bass note of rope
rubbing against metal
masts a tither
nudging sleepy hulls
remembering

walking the planks between
through the eye
of the wind chime
made of metal and bamboo
rattle and hum
wail and creak
the masts welcome
the wind
joyfully together
play their symphony
of reunion
vive la liberte
oh again, to be free
sailing on the sea