News Report Of Trawlerman Lost Poem by Christopher Hopkins

It was a welcome sight,
only known to them,
Hooker and line.
Of the importance,
its meaning to them.
Those lights of the pub,
and the quay side chapel,
shone out to the darkness
of the salt grey reaches.
Those horizon sat stars,
guided the hearts back home,
to the hill side fortresses
of family arms.
Today,
their journey's return,
that safe home-come relief,
is cold at the sight of those pricks of light.
Bated crowd gathers
at shoreline break,
the rolling surf drowned out
by the worried silence.
Who's number has been drawn?
The answer comes,
on the innocent bobs,
of a steamily slow course.
The engine sounds rings out,
like hooves of a black winged messenger,
who rides in the pit of stomachs.
Come quietly wish.
Come quickly too,
whisper the name,
in their own hushed prayer;
not their love to be taken.
Such soft arrows,
will pierce the heart of one.
Guilt in relief,
the end for others.
How quickly the seasons change at sea.