‘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?