The long shaft of lane
Spears out to the harbour
To a pointed tip,
Silver like a bleached bone
Lit by the pearly moon
Whose lustrous light
Creates stars from
The rubbed-smooth stones.
The tide in the harbour
Hums a lipping moan;
Fog scuttles
On to the causeway
Like dancers to the floor.
The lamps of the tannery
Silver in seaspun mist
Bubbling on the glass.
The sea writhes
Against Davitt Quay,
Swells against Strandside,
Cries whale songs
Like a voice in a shell,
Tingles faces with salty spittle,
Warns moored boats
To live its moods.
Colours ferment,
Flow into a float of fog;
The town ages
Like a barnacled anchor;
The sea is the fog
Gloating behind my pane;
I live the weather,
Gulfed between gaff and green.
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