Still..

and though the final moorings
of the now disparate armada
are but window sills and hall tables,
though he that crafted
each bough and mast
with tanned hands
and tender heart,
though he has crossed the bar,
and can no more be seen
than shadows in the dark,
still       
he stands on anchor watch,
as the sun illuminates the motes
of dust falling upon sails
that will never fill with wind.




© Laura Howard 2012