Outgoing Tide

Outgoing Tide
by John Trent

Burning crimson from a late Southern dusk
Long and tangled, hang drapes of Spanish grey
Standing tall, with its lengthening shadows
Each oaken vein takes root in the sand

Leaves gently touched by a familiar breeze
And set ablaze upon the retreating sun
Edges illumined with burnt gold and reds
And colors fade as the horizon darkens

Carefully leaning on my old grey friend
My mind slowly slips to a time long past
Barnacled pile, remains splintered and broken
Of a wharf, once busy, with the day’s fresh catch

These tired eyes scan the ancient river’s mouth
Keeping watch for the return of the swarms of gulls
My mind sees the ghost of each passing trawler
As the lone gull sings his old and soulful song

Lost memories and dreams from the limbs of this oak
Remembering the days of my imaginary youth
Now I stand at its roots with the slow setting sun
As my childhood drifts on the outgoing tide