Breakwater

If there were time,

to feel the sun

low clouds

breaking with the waves

a fog that clings

salt crusting

on his teeth

if there were time

to feel the sun

long faded

no one remembers

the warmth

a hand

once

held

the corn bends

toward the soil

competing with

vein-drawn hands

a map of valleys

filling empty sacks

brimming with burden

a deep sigh

slung

onto

his back

no work

slow hands

and heavy feet

dragging footprints

behind him

across rust-touched

barren land

the famine

feasts on his shoulders

a throbbing dance

now

left

alone

over the vast

westward sea

light punched a hole

a frail light

leading

his chin

to lift

toward lands

toward dreams

a vessel

of work and sweat

drops capturing

the sun’s glint

on unworked soil

not yet knowing

those

already gone

The salt and the rust

behind boulders

and concrete

the salt 

still clings

a cold

return

of memories

as the river

bends

shielding

traces

of creeping

rust

a row

of small

boats

counting fish

hands marked

with kiss of work

follow

moving rails

a pack

of deer

on guard

a scouting cornfield

whispering

the lifting soil

covering

old tracks

ragged

crystals

formed

in darkness

binding

the salt

and

the rust

Breakwater

boats still moored

tucked safely

behind the breakwater

standing guard

over old dreams

formed

of salt

on the plains

the soil

is set

back into marching

for the fear

closing hatches

wired tight

no more light

to tease the cracks

a North sea

slashing fierce

those who bridged

now anchored

deep into

the soil