Fishing Village

In the time between breathing
is the time between walkers
when friendship wallows in decay,
as evening moves in to separate
on flickers of deceit.

Stand upon the foreshore, watch the waves
throw spume into the sky. Hear
the clicking of pebbles grinding into sand
with restless eventuality. And on the air
catch the spindrift scent.

And back there, where the river dips into the sea,
and the cliffs hesitate briefly in their path,
a creaking ancient harbour crowded with rotting trawlers,
a sometimes jetty, now so timid, leans into the sea.
Cottages are homes to a transient sort of life,
travellers that briefly journey in search of peace,
and a measure of excitement. They watch the practice
as the lifeboat puts to sea, all heaving and shouting
and hasty careful effort, drilled and controlled.

It’s an empty kind of port now,
the fishing fleet a tale that’s told
across the top of a drink
and with mourning in the heart.

They sing their shanties for the tourists,
and for the ghosts that litter the quay,
drain their glasses, and for a moment
the light is back in their eyes.

The waves fold upon the shore
and the cliffs slump to rest.
Even the gulls have nothing left to say,
the ghosts exhausted by the effort.
A star, solitary, shines, floats upon the sea
a beacon for the lost.
Just there! See!