Behind the breakwater, the horseshoe bay;
a sooty shore
washed by slate-grey sea
that pushes and pulls to the tractor-chug
and the soaring cries of the gulls.
In the sand and salt
sit squat and honest houses,
their colours faded now
to autumnal and wintry shades
but home, still, to the seaside folk
and the fishermen afar,
set sail on painted cobles, gone
for tea.
Rusting puffins and,
up on the the rounded point, the great stone church
preside over the tide and
guard the gloried grains, banked in their billions,
against the callous wind.
Down in the narrow streets
- littered with nets, tangled stories and
idle lobster pots -
the generations run
unbounded as the grout between bricks
or the cobbled moss underfoot.
On occasion, the heroes launch,
scrambling into the waves,
out past the Couple cut adrift,
stood stoic - cold faces, their etched ambivalence,
watching the horizon for eternity
and wishing to stroll the arcing promenade
forever by-the-sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem