Long Wharf

[a sonnet done for poetry class. I didn't know what to write about, so of course I would go straight for the obvious...
There are only seagulls in it once.]

So every time I come here, every time
I run up to that corner granite slab
and trace the compass rose laid in thin lines
across stone paving, weathered down, made drab
by winter snow and roaring salt--where boats
are fighting Boston wind and seagulls hang
in auris, puppet-like, or land, or float
on stone blue waves that carried me, that rang
off, out away, to skies the sun can't clear
from hoary mist--I know the fog is old.
My feet are not the first ones planted here.
My hands are not the first gone numb from cold.
But I am young, and I can still pretend
that water stretches on without an end.