In a garden where the tides once roamed, Old fishing boats sit quiet, finally home. Their hulls, sun‑bleached, cracked with lore, Whisper tales of storms and distant shores.
Marigolds bloom where anchors slept, Vines climb masts the ocean kept. Rust‑kissed lanterns, chipped and worn, Glow like memories weathered and warm.
Seaglass glimmers in scattered piles, A treasure map of forgotten miles. And every breeze that drifts on through Smells faintly of salt… and something true.
Here, the sea retires with grace— A backyard harbor, a resting place. Where flowers guard what waves once knew, And time drifts slow, like a boat on blue.
