The highway bends left, south to town,
With lush pines low above the moors,
Climbing high to cross the shrouded
Waters, still and left behind.

Blackish tea of cypress leaves –
From untold miles of winding shore –
Frames brackish, bony-marrowed trees, like
Pallid fingers, ghosts of time.

The city, looming past the wetlands,
Modern spires and cobbled floors.
Silken gloves on calloused hands build
Castles hopeful for the tide.

Six bronze paddles side by side –
Looking back but blazing fore –
Hope stands idle, sins derided.
Past and future compromised

Editor’s Note:  Doug Ensley is a new writer for Cape Fear Voices.  We are happy he has joined the CFV family.