An ocean view

Scattered stones,
Sticks strewn
A metronomed wave
The white ball of a sun
The pervasive fog
They all stand still
As does a vessel in the distance
Anchored to the shallow ocean floor.

When I was a child my father told me much
About that boat named “St. Christopher”
He told me of its history, and how,
Steeped in tradition, it collected many
Lobster pots over many generations
Connecting one family to the sea
And to a livelihood.

It was my seamark in olden days
When I scattered stones
And strewn sticks
when my cares were few in the morning fog,
It made me proud to be from Maine
Though I’m not sure why

Now it rocks and I can barely see
Its pale-blue cabin dancing
In and out of sight
This boat, “The St. Christopher”
Now doesn’t mean so much to me
It’s nostalgic white-washed hull is
Faded by the salt

But many a tourist gaze at it,
Are mesmerized by it,
Worship it through their enhanced optics,
They seem to cherish it as if it were their very grandchild
I guess It paints a pretty picture in their head
That they can carry back to Kansas
or Illinois or New Mexico

To me its just one of many, lonely sea vessels
And its pale-blue
Dances
In and out of sight