Lifting of The Wreck

I come here often, stop, and from the river bank, watch the ribs of an old wreck break through the surface on an ebbing tide. After all this time it still seems to crave for breath, to air its last remains. Whatever past it has no longer resides in living memory but in a paragraph inked in a shipping registry sunk deep in the basement of the Maritime Museum, or is somewhere forever becalmed in a photograph, time frozen on a sepia sea. But this morning I took it in, gave my mind to its hollowed out hull and let imagination lift it from the mud and make it whole. I sailed it out of the suck of time and set it upon an open sea and as its sails billowed across my mind, I got the sense that throughout all the wear of passing time, it had been waiting for me.