‘Barnacles’ by Mike Finn
Now I am grown old My possessions feel like barnacle on my hull. Clinging to me, slowing me down. I wonder, If I scraped them off, What I would find beneath? Would I feel renewed And freshly free To sail to farther shores? Or would I feel stripped, Too pitted and weak To risk open water? Should I enter a dry dock And Give myself up To change and chance? Or should I drop my anchor Gentling the tide’s pull. So my barnacles and I can rest?