Echoed yelps of joy
still stretch this aging wood.
The river runs under,
eddies twirl about
the groaned supports,
down from the caps
that flood the town,
the melt of a maturing season.
A hidden history of
boat scuffs mark
last Summer’s happy days.
The mooring sways
in an impatient flow,
knows more boats will come.
Sonja Broderick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dock/
