The Old Cranes

The old cranes, arthritic with rust, bathe their long shadows in the river. Iron sinews that pulled and strained to lift load after load of scrap now dangle loosely from redundant arms. An eerie quiet settles the wharf where the last ship was pried away by tugs. My shadow still lingers there, lengthening in the green water, reaching out towards an absence where my ancestors once had their home. Soon, nothing will remain but a vacated space without title, slowly filling with the rubble dug out of the excavations from other people's lives.