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.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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