LatinosUSA

In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek

unwatched forgotten ships

lay beached and breathless

dashed and smashed

weather beaten

cut and bled

picked and broken by the dockside’s

stooping crane’s bill

slowly dying.             

Their final journeys to the shallows

scraping barnacle crusted bottoms

over shingle

groaning past

the red flagged gunnery range

pulled and pushed

by impatient tugs

had them still care

the sucking mud could steal them.

Robbed by landsman,

written out of registers

their church empty bridges

shadow untold stories

of once purposed lives

men who swore repeatedly

like lovers on heat

trumpeting the union of engine and steel. 

Now their ghosts can be heard

in the small of the night

blowing base horns

heaving anchors

turning their screws seaward

reliving purpose

blending their rusting hulls

to the sea and the never-ending sky.

© TonyAshenden 2026