Wharf

On the wharf where tides sigh low,
Old timbers whisper as they go,
Barnacled posts stand firm and bare,
Guardians of the salty air.

Moorings creak in steady rhythm,
Ropes like serpents, limp and limber,
While gulls wheel above the grey,
Casting shadows on the quay.

Fish‑scented breezes drift and play,
Carrying tales of far‑away,
Of steamers puffing smoke‑white clouds,
And lads who dream of daring crowds.

Lanterns glow as dusk takes hold,
Amber pools of light unfold,
Reflecting in the water’s face,
A mosaic of time and place.

Here the world both ends and starts,
Where land meets sea and wary hearts
Find pause, then push beyond the pier—
The wharf, a threshold, ever near.