Docks

The salt-laced wind whispers secrets to the wood,

Where weathered planks and creaking timbers stand,

A silent witness to the ebb and flood,

Of ocean's rhythm, on this far-off land.

The creosote's sharp scent hangs in the air,

A tang of journeys, both begun and done,

From fishing boats with nets hung out to dry there,

To grander ships that sail beneath the sun.

The docks, a threshold 'tween the sea and shore,

A place of comings, goings, and farewells,

Where seabirds cry and waves forever roar,

A timeless scene the ocean's story tells.