Fishermen Poem by Michael Cayley

Two old fishermen squat on the beach
looking outward at dusk.

Behind them the din of the harbour,
laughing taverns, the tall stories
swallowed with beer, a tart tripping
on drunken curses, two artificial
blondes angling with languid legs.

The hills, crusty from long summer,
lour drily. Roped boats bob
and sigh at their moorings.

The fishermen
hear nothing. Their eyes have sailed
into archipelagos of cloud
still warm with pink. As the tide comes in
their calloused palms
scoop and savour the sea.