Nothing is wasted.

Pitted scarred and discarded,
an anchor that time and tide no longer need.
Idle, no old connections,
nothing to brace against
buffet and squall.
Scrapped fragment of history,
unable to boast of battles and dangers,
now exposed to weathered ruination
with no plaque
nor silver watch,
no badge of honour.
Here, you must make a new impression
amongst waves of fern and beachy soil,
fight new battles with flowing tides of rain
and ebbing suns.
But there is beauty
in these crumbling shades of red and brown
leaning like an old man at a gate of passing.
These chains h