by Keith Moul
My fondness is not hard to express
here at the waterfront. I come often,
my eyes tearing in combined currents,
purposing a benign, mystic flagellation.
I walk nearby new aluminum turbines
rotating in wind, producing no power.
I approach the old fishing pier and see
cottonwood stumps from earlier time,
cut and milled to restrain fishers past.
The old pier warps in ways weird for
wood, and sits in a decrepit condition.
The new city pier may be used, strong,
sunk deep in the shoreline by the creek,
“improved” per city elders (not fishers),
being pestered by boat and public traffic.
I especially note the galvanized chains
looped around the edges of the pier and
carrying a motif to the sculpted octopus,
freed from ubiquitous rust from salt air.
Now that almost all the fish are gone,
now that fisher numbers have reduced,
tide waters roil, new barnacles grasp,
the breezes hoist on me a sting of loss.
Keith Moul has written poems and taken photos for more than 50 years, his work appearing in magazines widely. His chapbook, The Journal and a full-length volume, New and Selected Poems: Bones Molder, Words Hold were recently accepted by Duck Lake Books. These are his ninth and tenth chap or book published.