Late evening, wind whipped waves
Slapping against the clay packed
Stone grey harbour wall.
Like two great bellies
In a sumo wrestle
The wind’s 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