Boats sit in mud
where water once was
so far away
there seems little hope
they will once again float.
Swans sleep on seaweed
waddle towards leftover streams
feathers flutter
gracefully gliding
towards an ocean that is hiding.
Homes fortified from the tide
stone walls un-phased by the bay
doors, 4 feet tall
water stained streets
no matter how they try, never dry.
Blue anchor on a sign
a window, with a beautiful view:
floating boats
sitting off in the distance
as you enjoy fish & chips with a local brew.
Beyond lies a church
ringing bells draw you in
say a prayer
pass ancient tombstones you can barely read
enter the historic crpyt underneath.
A dock down below
surrounded by boats big and small
in mud, feet sink
walk out towards the water
beyond the edge of the harbor.
Moon rising in the distance
the tide gently rolls in
slowly then quickly
boats begin to float again
while cars mis-parked flood with the salty water.
Commands from a king ignored
the tides will not abide
coming and goingof their own will
yet somehow Bosham survives
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