Paul Willason Poet Free verse

The Old Port

I like the old buildings,
the weathered brick,
the worn down doorsteps sanded
by a century of shuffling feet,
the musty smells from
old bond stores and hotel
cellars wafting up through
grates along the street.

I like the defiance 
of the old façades,
how they hang on 
beneath layers of gaudy paint,
the names and dates
embossed on buildings
refusing to be rubbed out, 
the held dignity of a stone wall,
desecrated by graffiti 
yet still standing straight.

I like the late night
peace and quiet  
that settles along the lanes 
and back streets
of the old port,
places only the locals know,
home to the ghosts
of washed-up sailors 
and the lost souls
who have nowhere 
else to go.

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