The Sentinel of the Landing

The dust of the road knew the weight of his stride,
A rhythm measured in tides and decades,
Where the salty gulf-scent tangles with wood-stove smoke,
And the “done gone” voices linger in the shades.
Old Man Bubba, with hands like cypress root,
Waded where the brackish water meets the knee,
A master of the slipknot and the heavy line,
Setting the restless river-runners free.
Inside the house, the “dog-trot” caught the wind,
A breeze-way whistling through the treasure pile,
While beans and cornbread simmered on the iron,
Waiting for a neighbor’s weary smile.
He fed the landing on more than just the pot;
He served the mysteries of the alligator’s eye,
The “fish lies” stretched until they nearly snapped,
And truths that only old men dare to try.
The family is a memory in the rafters now,
The rooms are quiet, but the porch is wide;
He stands at the edge where the dusty road ends,
And pulls the morning in with the rising tide.

©️ Deborah Seale 2026