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Poem

Sat all alone beside that muttering shoreline he busied 
      Himself, diligently, and sewed.                                             
   And whilst sewing, sang, in a redundant tongue,                                
Tales of an unforgiving sea...for in him resided the only 
      Remaining refuge of the old fathers songs;                                  
   But then he had been sired from the loins of a rarer kind...                   
The last native of a vanished tribe.                                              
      Bowed, pale blue mountains in mourning behind,                              
   The forlorn mists slowly gathering below;                                      
Unintelligible utterances from weeping seabirds, those
      Shrill, demented cries                                                     
   Resonating across the marooned, windless bay; plunging 
Down, the abrupt outline of towering cliffsides;                         
      And in his voice a great sorrow...that which only the 
   Truly forsaken could ever possibly know.  

                                     
Now just abandoned longboats lying beached above the 
      High-water mark; white sands 
   And white pebbles still washed by lulling tides;
Sometimes, from out of this little cove, a troubling breeze; 
      And carrying on this breeze, faint sounds of muted,
   Despairing sighs.
For it is the longboats that sigh. They sigh for the 
    Passing of well schooled and patient hands.

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