The Fisherman of Wexford
THERE is an old tradition sacred held in Wexford town,
That says: 'Upon St. Martin's Eve no net shall be let down;
No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy day,
Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wexford Bay.'
The tongue that framed the order, or the time, no one could tell;
And no one ever questioned, but the people kept it well.
And never in man's memory was fisher known to leave
The little town of Wexford on the good St. Martin's Eve.
Alas! alas for Wexford! once upon that holy day
Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the waters of the Bay.
The fishers and their families stood out upon the beach,
And all day watched with wistful eyes the wealth they might not reach.
Such shoal was never seen before, and keen regrets went round—
Alas! alas for Wexford! Hark! what is that grating sound?
The boats' keels on the shingle! Mothers! wives! ye well may grieve,—
The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on Martin s Eve!
'Oh, stay ye!' cried the women wild. 'Stay!' cried the men white-haired;
'And dare ye not to do this thing your fathers never dared.
No man can thrive who tempts the Lord!' 'Away!' they cried: 'the Lord
Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman's reward.'
And scoffingly they said, 'To-night our net shall sweep the Bay,
And take the Saint who guards it, should he come across our way!'
The keels have touched the water, and the crews are in each boat;
And on St. Martin's Eve the Wexford fishers are afloat!
The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on the land,
On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale ones on the strand,
As seaward go the daring boats, and heavenward the cries
Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted hands and eyes.
' Oh Holy Virgin! be their guard! ' the weeping women cried;
The old men, sad and silent, watched the boats cleave through the tide,
As past the farthest headland, past the lighthouse, in a line
The fishing-fleet went seaward through the phosphor-lighted brine.
Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers! All your prayers they sorely need
To save them from the wrath they've roused by their rebellious greed.
Oh! white-haired men and little babes, and weeping sweethearts, pray
To God to spare the fishermen to-night in Wexford Bay!
The boats have reached good offing, and, as out the nets are thrown,
The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the soughing sea-wind's moan:
Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped for some return,
To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind seemed to mourn.
But ah! the Wexford fishermen! their nets did scarcely sink
One inch below the foam, when, lo! the daring boatmen shrink
With sudden awe and whitened lips and glaring eyes agape,
For breast-high, threatening, from the sea uprose a Human Shape!
Beyond them,—in the moonlight,—hand upraised and awful mien,
Waving back and pointing landward, breast-high in the sea 'twas seen.
Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed,—then, with clenched hand upraised,
The awful shape went down before the fishers as they gazed!
Gleaming whitely through the water, fathoms deep they saw its frown,—
They saw its white hand clenched above it,—sinking slowly down!
And then there was a rushing ' neath the boats, and every soul
Was thrilled with greed: they knew it was the seaward-going shoal!
Defying the dread warning, every face was sternly set,
And wildly did they ply the oar, and wildly haul the net.
But two boats' crews obeyed the sign, —God-fearing men were they,—
They cut their lines and left their nets, and homeward sped away;
But darkly rising sternward did God's wrath in tempest sweep,
And they, of all the fishermen, that night escaped the deep.
Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, sires! well might ye mourn next day;
For seventy fishers' corpses strewed the shores of Wexford Bay!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Related quotes
Fishing
They dropped the sails of their boats
near the shore of the Sea of Galilee
at early morning-light
and were heavy-eyed and tired
having worked in vain
all night long
and washed the nets
while the sun rose hot
in the blue cloudless sky.
From the distance a crowd
came nearer following
a holy man and listening to him
and he climbed into one of the boats,
asked Simon to sail
a little bit off shore
and sat teaching the people
from the boat.
The fishermen stopped working
and started listening
to the beautiful things that he said
and yet there he was still
just a man to them
and maybe a great prophet.
He instructed Simon
to sail into deep water
and to set the nets
for a catch.
Shaking his head
Simon explained that they
had worked all night long
without catching anything
but something about this holy man
made them obey.
When they brought the nets up
there were too many fish
for the nets to hold
and they beckoned their partners
in the other boat to help
and filled both boats
past their capacity
and suddenly Simon knew
that the Son of God
was sailing with him
and fell on his knees crying out:
'Go away from me, Lord;
I am a sinful man! '
And the fishermen were astounded
at the large catch that they had taken
and Jesus said that henceforth
they would be catching men
and they shored their boats,
leaving everything
to follow Him.
[Reference: Luke 5: 1-11.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Paumanok Picture
TWO boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
Ten fishermen waiting--they discover a thick school of mossbonkers--
they drop the join'd seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the
beach, enclosing the mossbonkers,
The net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep
in the water, pois'd on strong legs,
The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them,
Strew'd on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water,
the green-back'd spotted mossbonkers.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Senriyu
Boats with lots of fish,
Fishermen' wives are in agony in the shore,
Pirates shot the fishermen!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
poem by Eugene Field
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Dutch lullaby
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of misty light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sung a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
But never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
For the fish in the twinkling foam,
Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
poem by Eugene Field
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The fishermen of Gallilee
The fishermen of Gallilee, disciples of Jesus, called to be,
Learning how to live by Faith, they obeyed when He said 'follow Me.'
They went out to fish with their nets one very stormy night,
And as a storm blew up, they saw Him walk and got a fright;
They thought it was a ghost, But they soon found out,
It was Jesus walking there, and soon their boat came about.
Another time when they were on the sea, as Jesus did stand and talk,
He then said we'll go the other side by boat, we won't walk;
And as they started out with their boats into the deep,
Jesus went to the back of the boat, and went to sleep.
Now as they travelled, the weather changed, and a storm did blow,
And the Fishermen came so afraid, Fear was all they did know;
They went to Jesus and woke Him, then said don't you really care,
That we're in danger, but why couldn't they realize, Jesus was there;
Jesus then stood up, rebuked the storm, and the storm quietened down,
Jesus said Peace, and peace came, No longer their faces did frown.
The fishermen learnt many things, and so do learn them, it's so,
That trusting in Jesus, for everyone, is the only way to go;
But with trust and faith, helps us to cope in life,
When sin causes us to go wrong, brings about strife;
Just keep on believing, and try not to doubt,
You too like the fishermen, you'll no longer pout.
poem by Margaret Haig
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The Lake
The lake so grand, boats afloat
all sizes and shapes
pontoons, yachts, sails and fishing boat
people from all over and all ages
every wave so beautiful as the they stroll ashore
from white caps to rolling wave. the flow so endless
the boats flowing so gentling across the water
the fish swimming so free under the water
teasing the fishermen, steal the bait
the lake is the place to be on this fine day
God creation for all to enjoy
take the moment and view the lake
It so grand and so free
poem by Michael Peterson
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At Lambert's Bay The Fishing Trawlers Sail Out
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
where clouds of smoke hang over the boats
while the rain pours down in buckets.
The waves hit, the sea foams and bubble,
it looks as if a storm is rising
and 'my girlfriend has a fine fellow, '
one sings in darkness before he starts whistling
where clouds of smoke hang over the boats.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
seeking snoek, cod and sea-trout
and the boat turns to get out fishing gear,
it looks as if a storm is rising
and the men wait on the sea's first gifts
with rain like only God's hosepipe brings
while the rain pours down in buckets.
'Look at that shining bodies, tons of trout, they are running free, '
the song continues and something falls down
and the boat turns to get out fishing gear,
with engines roaring loudly
every fisherman is caught for a moment.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
'my girlfriend has a fine fellow and he is a wild goat, '
one sings against the wind with more joining voices,
the song continues and something falls down
and the tiller-man wonders about the sudden rain
but the fishermen are catching
while the rain pours down in buckets
they are standing ready but half-blinded
'Where are we going on the wide, wide sea'
one sings against the wind with more joining voices,
gigantic waves hits and pulls the boat
and some fishermen are scared.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
while the rain pours down in buckets
while the fishermen sing their song:
'The waves hit, the sea foams and bubble, '
'where are we going on the wide, wide sea'
and 'my girlfriend has a fine fellow.'
[Reference: Barracouta is known in South-Africa as 'snoek.']
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Wreck of the Steamer Mohegan
Good people of high and low degree,
I pray ye all to list to me,
And I'll relate a terrible tale of the sea
Concerning the unfortunate steamer, Mohegan,
That against the Manacles Rocks, ran.
'Twas on Friday, the 14th of October, in the year of ninety-eight,
Which alas! must have been a dreadful sight;
She sailed out of the river Thames on Thursday,
While the hearts of the passengers felt light and gay.
And on board there were 133 passengers and crew,
And each one happier than another seemingly to view;
When suddenly the ship received some terrible shocks,
Until at last she ran against the Manacles Rocks.
Dinner was just over when the shock took place,
Which caused fear to be depicted in every face;
Because the ship was ripped open, and the water rushed in,
It was most dreadful to hear, it much such a terrific din.
Then the cries of children and women did rend the air,
And in despair many of them tore their hair
As they clung to their babies in wild despair,
While some of them cried- 'Oh, God, do Thou my babies spare!'
The disaster occurred between seven and eight o'clock at night,
Which caused some of the passengers to faint with fright;
As she struck on the Manacles Rocks between Falmouth and Lizard Head,
Which filled many of the passengers' hearts with dread.
Then the scene that followed was awful to behold,
As the captain hurried to the bridge like a hero bold;
And the seamen rushed manfully to their posts,
While many of the passengers with fear looked as pale as ghosts.
And the poor women and children were chilled to the heart,
And crying aloud for their husbands to come and take their part;
While the officers and crew did their duty manfully,
By launching the boats immediately into the sea.
Then lifebelts were tied round the women and children
By the brave officers and gallant seamen;
While the storm fiend did laugh and angry did roar,
When he saw the boats filled with passengers going towards the shore.
One of the boats, alas! unfortunately was swamped,
Which caused the officers and seamens' courage to be a little damped;
But they were thankful the other boats got safely away,
And tried hard to save the passengers without dismay.
Then a shriek of despair arose as the ship is sinking beneath the wave,
While some of the passengers cried to God their lives to save;
But the angry waves buffetted the breath out of them,
Alas, poor sickly children, also women and men.
Oh, heaven, it was most heartrending to see
A little girl crying and imploring most piteously,
For some one to save her as she didn't want to die,
But, alas, no one seemed to hear her agonizing cry.
For God's sake, boys, get clear, if ye can,
Were the captain's last words spoken like a brave man;
Then he and the officers sank with the ship in the briny deep,
Oh what a pitiful sight, 'tis enough to make one weep.
Oh think of the passengers that have been tempest tossed,
Besides, 100 souls and more, that have been lost;
Also, think of the mariner while on the briny deep,
And pray to God to protect him at night before ye sleep.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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At Hout Bay the fishing trawler sails out
At Hout Bay the fishing trawler sails out
while the rain pours down
like water out of God’s hosepipe
with engines roaring in the ears
and clouds of smoke hang over the boats
with every fisherman for a moment being caught
in a own world while fog whirl about the boats
that rocks up and down to the harbour mouth.
The waves crash, the sea foams and bubbles
and “my girlfriend has a good lover, ”
is sung by one while the trawler sets its course
on the look out for barracouta, cod and sea trout.
“Look at the shining bodies, tons of trout, they are running free, ”
a fisherman shouts against the wind that pulls and pulls on the boat.
“Salmon man, salmon” roars the tiller man back and walls of water
roll past and the boat turns to get fishing gear ready.
“My girlfriend has a good lover and he’s a gelded goat, ”
the tune goes on and something clatters down
drawing the attention of the fishermen and the water shines
and when the boat is full they tell jokes that they guffaw at.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Fisher's Widow
The boats go out and the boats come in
Under the wintry sky;
And the rain and foam are white in the wind,
And the white gulls cry.
She sees the sea when the wind is wild
Swept by a windy rain;
And her heart's a-weary of sea and land
As the long days wane.
She sees the torn sails fly in the foam,
Broad on the sky-line gray;
And the boats go out and the boats come in,
But there's one away.
poem by Arthur Symons
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The Three Fishers
1 Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
2 Away to the west as the sun went down;
3 Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
4 And the children stood watching them out of the town;
5 For men must work, and women must weep,
6 And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
7 Though the harbour bar be moaning.
8 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
9 And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
10 They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
11 And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
12 But men must work, and women must weep,
13 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
14 And the harbour bar be moaning.
15 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
16 In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
17 And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
18 For those who will never come home to the town;
19 For men must work, and women must weep,
20 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
21 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Dunkirk
They came from a line of fishermen,
Way back, two hundred years,
The sons of a dour old Kentish man,
Who'd braved the First World War;
When Joe went off to the Army, then,
The old man's face was grim,
'You go and fight for the country, lad,
We can't rely on him! '
He scowled on down at the eldest lad
Who sat there, mending nets,
For all he knew was the salt, the sea
And a life of cheap regrets.
The black sheep of the family
Was all that his father saw,
For Jack had refused the Army call:
'I don't believe in war! '
A feather came in the post next day,
As white as a cotton sheet,
The father turned his back on him
For shame, and refused to speak.
While Joe went off with the B.E.F.
To help the beleaguered French,
Jack was mending his fishing nets,
And sat with his fingers clenched.
Their fishing boat, the Pelican,
Lay stranded in Sandwich Bay,
Just twenty feet, and clinker built,
With the deckhouse cut away.
When the Panzers swept down to the coast,
Reaching the channel first,
The B.E.F. had retreated back
To the beaches at Dunkirk.
The Navy sent destroyers then,
Their frigates and corvettes,
But couldn't get close to the beaches there
Because of the shallow depths,
The Navy's own small vessel pool
Then called for the help of those
Whose boats were a certain shallow draught
To ferry the soldiers home.
When Jack came in, the news was out,
His mother sat, dismayed,
The Army was stranded along the beach
Where Joe lay low, and prayed.
The Stuka's screamed, and dropped their bombs
And the lines of men were strafed,
Three hundred thousand men despaired
As the Panzers lay in wait.
'So much for you, ' the father said,
As the tears poured down his cheek,
'So much for the lunacy of war, '
Said Jack, when he could speak.
'Your brother's out there, risking all,
My son, my shining light! '
But Jack stalked out with a bitter laugh,
And cried, once out of sight.
He strode on out to the Pelican,
The tide was coming in,
He dragged and pushed it to meet the sea
As he floated it again,
He kicked the inboard into life
And he sailed for Ramsgate then,
The boats were gathering by the score
To save their countrymen.
They sailed that night in convoys, groups,
And lines of little boats,
While Jack prayed long at the tiller
That the Pelican stayed afloat,
She'd never been out as far as this,
She was just a coastal craft…
But Joe stood out in the water, then,
And thought of his brother, Jack.
The Stuka's bombed the Naval ships,
They strafed the lines of men,
Joe didn't know if he'd ever get back
To his homeland, once again.
The Foudroyant was bombed and sank,
A destroyer ran aground,
Then a hundred boats, with the Pelican,
Finally sighted land.
Jack took the Pelican close inshore
And he loaded his twenty men,
He ferried them out to a waiting ship
Then turned to the shore again,
He plucked the men from the waters there
And he looked for his brother Joe,
But Joe was safe on a steamer, then,
Though his brother didn't know.
For hours he turned, and turned about,
He saved five hundred lives,
He worked himself to exhaustion there
Like a man who the devil drives,
Eight hundred ships and boats were there
In the smoke and the swirling murk,
To bring those thousands of soldiers home
From the beaches of Dunkirk.
Joe walked unsteadily through the door
To the cries of his folks, alone,
They couldn't speak for the pure relief
Of seeing him safe at home,
But his father suddenly pulled away,
And wept, while turning his back,
'We've just been told by the foot patrol…
We've lost your brother, Jack! '
'They said the Pelican's hull was holed
With a burst of cannon rounds,
The men on board were saved, I heard,
But three of them were drowned.
They left the bodies to float out there;
Oh God; now, what have I done? '
He shook his head as he cried, and said,
'I've lost my eldest son! '
They placed a plaque on the Harbour wall
For Jack and the Pelican,
While the father stared most days to sea
As he cried there, off and on,
Then he took a match and some tinder wood
For a pledge he'd made before,
To burn a pure white feather there
For a son who hated war.
14 June 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Signalman
I see him as the signalman
On the unseen tracks of time
A family priest for all of us-
As we travel down the line.
Railway stations made him blue
When he was young and leaving home-
I wonder if it was his Signalman
That for so long kept him going? .
He taught the boys of Wexford
By the Barrow in New Ross
And at a later time the Déise lads
In Dungarvan’s lovely town;
A chaplin in Dublin's Liberties
Now in Limerick nearer home;
The road that led to his priesthood
Had earlier started off in Rome.
In his vestments with a bell of brass
Before the quarter past eleven mass,
Ringing out “Come all ye within”
To that little hospital Chapel
That always has been dear to him.
Augustine's''Lord we are restless''
''Until we rest with Thee''
He quoted freely at his Golden Jubilee.
He has always been our signalman
Along the unseen tracks of time:
A family priest for everyone
As we are travelling down the line.
poem by Matt Mooney
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Storms, Fishermen and Boats
[Son! Do not sail mischievously, boat goes to Dragon's mouth and very few knows about truth.] -Mahagama Sekara- (A Sri Lankan celebrated poet)
Fathomless Ocean
Struggling fishermen
Unexpected storms
And tossing boats.
Fishing Harbor mourns
And wait for the friends
Old ruined Lighthouse search their whereabouts.
In the breezy night
Ocean hides the top secret
And the waves hug the weeping beach as usual.
* My deepest sympathy to Senator Edward Kennedy and may his precious soul rest in peace!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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I Like That Idea
i like the idea of what boats are meant for
i told you once
boats are meant to sail
far to the sea
and dissolve in the horizon
till they are gone
till they sink
to the bottom of the sea
and kiss its floor
and become the
permanent ornaments
of the corrals and sands
but i like your idea too
of boats
like mine sailing to the farthest sea
of boats like yours
that come back and embrace again
the welcoming arms
of the ports and the shores
and hear the sounds
of men and women
and children
all rejoicing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Conquest Of Finland
ACROSS the frozen marshes
The winds of autumn blow,
And the fen-lands of the Wetter
Are white with early snow.
But where the low, gray headlands
Look o'er the Baltic brine,
A bark is sailing in the track
Of England's battle-line.
No wares hath she to barter
For Bothnia's fish and grain;
She saileth not for pleasure,
She saileth not for gain.
But still by isle or mainland
She drops her, anchor down,
Where'er the British cannon
Rained fire on tower and town.
Outspake the ancient Amtman,
At the gate of Helsingfors:
'Why comes this ship a-spying
In the track of England's wars?'
'God bless her,' said the coast-guard, —
'God bless the ship, I say.
The holy angels trim the sails
That speed her on her way!
'Where'er she drops her anchor,
The peasant's heart is glad;
Where'er she spreads her parting sail,
The peasant's heart is sad.
'Each wasted town and hamlet
She visits to restore;
To roof the shattered cabin,
And feed the starving poor.
' The sunken boats of fishers,
The foraged beeves and grain,
The spoil of flake and storehouse,
The good ship brings again.
'And so to Finland's sorrow
The sweet amend is made,
As if the healing hand of Christ
Upon her wounds were laid!'
Then said the gray old Amtman,
'The will of God be done!
The battle lost by England's hate,
By England's love is won!
'We braved the iron tempest
That thundered on our shore;
But when did kindness fail to find
The key to Finland's door?
'No more from Aland's ramparts
Shall warning signal come,
Nor startled Sweaborg hear again
The roll of midnight drum.
'Beside our fierce Black Eagle
The Dove of Peace shall rest;
And in the mouths of cannon
The sea-bird make her nest.
'For Finland, looking seaward,
No coming foe shall scan;
And the holy bells of Abo
Shall ring, 'Good-will to man!'
'Then row thy boat, O fisher!
In peace on lake and bay;
And thou, young maiden, dance again
Around the poles of May!
'Sit down, old men, together,
Old wives, in quiet spin;
Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon
Is the brother of the Finn!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Down In The Deep
Way down, down in the deep
how many a sailor went to sleep?
Some in ships that were wrecked in a storm,
some in vessels that now do form
abodes for fish to swim all around.
Down in the deep at the bottom of its ground.
Way down, down in the deep
how many travelers went to sleep?
Some in planes that crashed in the sea,
strapped in their seats, not floating free.
The sea became their final resting place
down in the deep without a trace.
Way down, down in the deep
How many fishermen went to sleep?
Some in boats loaded with their catch,
Time had come when the sea became their match.
But, fishermen are in love with the big blue deep.
And so it is down in the deep that they sleep.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Safe Harbour
As the light starts to fade, at the end of the day,
And the last rays of sunset cascade on the bay.
The fishing boats set sail, their little lamps a glow,
Off to deeper waters and the school of fish below.
Along the granite, harbor wall, the lime washed cottage stands,
The little wind swept coastal path to the causeway and sands.
At the point a lighthouse giving out its light,
Protecting the wayward mariner as he sails on through the night.
For generations have come and gone, it’s always been that way,
As tide rolls in with the fishing boats that signals break of day.
poem by Nicholas Windle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saltburn
I used to watch the fishermen, go out from Saltburn sands
Their cobbles loaded up with nets and long lines in their hands
The lobster pots were up forard, with the markers and the picks
Going to the fishing grounds, they knew all the tricks
They wore a woolen jersey and a yellow vinyl coat
A sow wester when it was raining, or a beanie in the boat
I used to watch them coming home, from the fishing bed
A wave pushing his beam, i loved my uncle Fred
The cobbles they were sturdy boats overlapped you see
Corked with tar to seal them from the northern sea
I've seen them in the water when storms are about ter burst
Disappearing beneath a wave, it's what they fear the worst
Up she comes with the spray, there oars are digging deep
Just longing for some dry clothes and someones arm's to sleep
I've seen them on the good days, . when a bountiful catch is landed
I heard them in the pub that night tall tales, They expanded
I've seen their craggy faces, as they smoked their pipes
I've seen them playing dominoes an listened to their gripes
A braver bunch I've never met, apart from the miner
I take my hat off to fisherfolk, you make my England finer
poem by Bob Gibson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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