Slumber Dock

The dockyard exhaled as the sun wallowed long, pink shadows across the water. The day’s work had ended and the great cranes stood still, their arms raised against the blue sky. Barges rocked, their hulls knocking dully against the piers, while ropes, thick with use, lay slack in coils where men had left them.

A single figure moved among the quiet. Old Red, once a navy man that was now the night watch. He walked the length of the dock with an easy step despite a gait that was made for the sea. He had seen the place alive with steam rising, sharp voices, and machines groaning under the weight of their work. But now it was resting, just as men did when hard toil was done. He paused by a rust-flecked bollard watching the last light catch the water. It was never silent here. The dock always breathed: metal shifting with the tide, the creak of wood, the occasional slap of a fish against the surface. It had its own rhythm and its own way of speaking.

Beyond the piers, ships stood at anchor, their silhouettes patiently at ease. Tomorrow they would move again and take their cargo and steel for distant waters. Red tipped his cap as if acknowledging an old friend on the water and carried on his amble down the dock.

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