the old dock silent in winters cold embrace
such it would be all day
save for the logistics race
to the moaning of a ship in slow decay

seagulls hover high above on ***** wings
her tumor of rust and fallen pride
they heckle her, the filthy things
on winds of scorn they ride

she should have been allowed to drown
to end her reign with stern held high
but profit must in books be noted down
for her tortured hull, no end is nigh

in her hold now; fresh water, tinned fruit and frozen meat
drums of oil and parts for the engine to spare
to keep this crew, her carers on their tired feet
and make her next long trek easier to bare

alone on the dock he watches her leave
once more, like in times of old, she raises her sail
wishing the sea to offer her reprieve
for a reef to shatter her old tired hull, so frail