Working on it

Part 1

It wasn't a feat,
But a sad, sad fleet.
Rode into the night-foam,
Slow and drear.
And she was watching through
Her pane, clutching neat
Folds in his shirt, all wrapped around
The hot water bottle's heat.
Almost half-wishing
It had a heart beat.


Part 2

Lost was the rhythm that she revived.
Who knew why
The iron lay out by the side
And rot had crept in where sleeping dogs die.
The family table grew sinewy, weak
With the echo of untouched dishes.


Part 3

It wasn't supposed
To appear like hope,
The shimmering ray torn out
As the boats
Set sail, she lay glittered
Unspangled, blander alone
As the ocean lapped shore, she wondered...
What was left of the coast?
Gentle memories
Of his ghost.