An ageing wharf

In just a momentary glimpse, I catch a wharf, aged and failing but trying still, and I think how a fresh and able wharf would never draw my gaze but wonder instead why this wharf, with its sunken mossy pylons and splintered planks, is interesting to me and makes me ponder on who built it and how long ago and the hopes they had for its future and the purpose on which they could only guess their new wharf would serve, and it seems to me that this storied wharf, now neglected and dilapidated, contains a sentimental meaning so rich and earned that it should never be disturbed, never be moved on or replaced but allowed to collapse under its own weight at a moment of its own accord and in a fashion of its choosing, and I care not if anybody has thought anything else of this ageing wharf, for this ageing wharf has earned my eye.

Looking forward, I begin to ruminate, with mighty concern: will the wharf of my soul be adored in kind?