The Old Boat

The old boat did not wreck itself But required a constant checking in With negligence. A grey rock, Frost cracked, rolls into the scree. The cool heron pecking at the silt Feels winter in an empty beak. Why does she not fear death On those brittle, improbable legs? The estuary inhales exposing Its teeth as far as the green buoy. I have the ebb tide dream Of sailing that mud sunk old wreck.