Broken-winged, she lies

against the tide,

stranded in her dying;

feeble in the winter

of her days.

Wave-lapped,

abandoned now

by love, too worn to care,

too beautiful to not.

A movement, very slight;

she pulls

against the lines

that hold her fast,

breathes deep

the salt sea air.

She scents, perhaps,

the long-forgotten

breezes off the islands,

warm with spice

and thick with summer light.

What memories are held

within those fragile bones?

She pulls again;

some yearning makes her strive

against her fate.

The slowness of this death,

through long neglect,

cannot erase the grace

or quench the heart

that pulses still

against those captive lines,

and flew her once

above the spray

and spume of oceans wide.

A single palm tree

leans above,

the final listener

for her sighs,

the last to mourn

her loveliness,

the vision of her soul,

her siren song.

Her sails are torn,

her rudder stilled,

her rigging stark and bare

against the sand.

Hush! bow your head

and mourn her passing sprite,

for on this shore,

alone for aye,

she dies.