Patiently waiting, she bobs her space;
rocking, creaking and groaning in place.
Beneath her barnacled hull so wide,
lies and an anchor of steel that resists the strong tide.
Each day under gulls fluttering wings,
she longs to hear the sounds of her dreams:
The creak of the board, the flap of the sail;
the incantation of the fishmonger’s wail.
He’ll pull up her anchor, untether the dock.
She was made to float free not to bump against rock.
Together at last He’ll sail her away;
to lands yet uncharted, to love that will stay.
~Joanne Elaine Denton