Push

A little push is all we can think about.
A little shove, friend, is all that is needed
To push the leaky boat into blue waters.
So a decrepit eighty year old poet says,
In the margins, nicely to the night sky
His pale moon remembering all night.

The boat is on anchor in house balcony
Having come adrift in the last season’s sea.
The tree’s shadows love it in the balcony.
The timbers are still there in sea-cracks
With the wood scent of the forest intact.
Their chambers have nice wooden planks
That will make warm embers this winter.

(Taking off on At Eighty by Edwin Morgan (1920-2010) , the Scottish poet whose boat got the push in the last season)