The City of Wind

Skalhalla, that is the name of the city of wind. A ship, larger than any vessel ever built. The hulk is a dwelling for hundreds, towered by a forest of masts and rope.
Tattered sails fly in the wind. They twist and coil, grasp like scrawny fingers to catch the wispy clouds.
A hundred yardarms hang in the heights, creaking, swaying in the brisk breeze, while swarms of gulls circle the rigging, fighting over morsels of refuse and fish. Their shrill screeches are carried off by the biting winds, towards the cliff and rocks.
The leviathan's hull lies stranded on the beach, listing heavily, with sand clinging to the splintering wood. The biting cold of the sea seeps through the thick planks. The small cabins inside are either gelid like the sea, or engulfed in the choking smoke of wet driftwood fires.

Carcasses of boats encircle the ship, numerous beyond count. They cling to the huge wooden belly for shelter, like piglets to a sow. These decrepit wrecks used to be brigs and lateeners once, riding the wave and storm. Now they are hardly more than floating coffins and shabby hovels. Some of them lie up on the shore, high on the rocks or half buried in the sand, while others still float and falter. Those ones are kept in place by their anchors and the hawsers between their hulks. Some are nailed together, forming drifting islands in the shallow sea. Planks span the gaps between the railings and bridge the black water below.
The sails are long gone, the masts rise towards the sky like the bleak dead trees they are. The oiled cloth now serves as roofing to the dwellings of a thousand without home. The old sails were patched up and heaved into the air, to shield from the wind and rain they used to catch.

Smoke rises up from the cabooses of the washed up city. The smell of fish lies in the air. It is everywhere and everlasting. Rotten fish in the water, smoked fish in the chambers. Grilled fish on deck, aside the fresh fish, still wiggling and winding. The scent mingles with wet cloth,  rotting wood and smouldering soot.
The few ships that are still seaworthy bring back their catch every morning and dock at the jetty which reaches out into the deeper waters. It is build from the remains of the oldest ships, those that had no more hope. Waves crash into their seaweed-covered prows, sending up white spray into the sky.
Some old sailors grow clams and mussels on sunken poles, others cook kelp and eelgrass. Crayfish are known creep through the rocks further north. Some quicker men also catch the rats and straying cats that were washed ashore along their former masters.
People shout through the dripping alleys. They try to sell their catch or exchange gossip, always assuring that any of them is fresh. The shouts are as screeching as the ones of the gulls above.
The huge hulk in the heart of the wooden forest is a castle of lost hope. The old captain sits in his chambers at the stern of the beast. He looms over his lost city, overlooking the floating coffins through dirty bull's eye panes. Hope has left him.
Skalhalla, that is the name of the city of wind.