Late evening, wind whipped waves Slapping against the clay packed Stone grey harbour wall. Like two great bellies In a sumo wrestle The windβs getting cold; As a cloud slashed silver sun, Dipping below far hazy hills. New islands will feel its heat New lands, grateful people, waking to a new day As our day withers and dies, Tired, but loved rusty boats Bob and dance, weaving and turning their tethers Waiting for their one last turn to sail, to fly To shine again And bring home the harvest of the sea