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Departures
I watch it slowly leave
the river and enter the Bay,
its bow parting the calm
with an efficient quiet.
Another hour and the ship
will be cutting through
the swells of the open sea.
Men in orange overalls
lean on railings at the stern
looking back
over a long wake.
I try to imagine what thoughts
are washing across
their minds. Perhaps
it's the crew menu for that night
or the blurred monotony
of seeing another foreign port
with its cranes and marshalling
yards decompose
into the fading light.
Or more likely the thoughts
of love ones waiting for them
at home.
Seagulls follow them out
and spiral over the ship's
dissolving propeller churn,
dipping down into the water,
lifting up again on wings lit
by the last rays of a setting sun.
There is a sadness
to the sight of departing ships -
it touches something deep
as if calling up the echoes
of ancestors saying their last
goodbyes to sons and daughters,
siblings and the grandchildren
they will never meet.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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