Bruised, battered not broken,
the hull in tact;
barge boards support my being.
A brittle bird frame being,
Yet coals are lit,
steam moves the valves of my heart.
I chug through,
choking brine tales,
into the marina of crying hearts.
Canal straights guide my rope,
traversing towpaths
new moorings.
Locks open,
sluice gates rush;
water reminds me to drink this life.
I am not a silent poet 