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Poem

Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.

The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.

When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.

The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.

A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.

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