My anchor is rusting, unused.
In drydock, My sails, permanently furled, are in dry rot
My keel a stranger to seafaring danger
My mast is a tree again, putting down roots
I’m landed. A Landed Gent. Landed Gentry.
I traded sea for soil;
Purchased this plot,
deeded to me by patience,
this soil, grown soft and dull
under the shade of my hull.
My crumbling decks, unneeded
are becoming fertile soil, useful again;
sprouting flowers, ferns, fungus,
feeding snails and wonders.
Years of cruising high seas,
pirate-ing for booty — long over.
Funny, now that I’m high and dry
I have found my treasure.
Copyright me, I guess. (As if anyone would want to steal my writing)