The Old Trawlermen Of The Sea Poem by Bert Bell

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To the angry sea that tosses freighters
round like bits of fluff, the ruddy-skinned
old trawlers come― they sit their

creaking bones down on the rocks within
two oar lengths of its crashing
waves. they tell the same old lies,

and groan about old aches and new
pains― the silver-bearded one takes out
a tin of snuff, and packs some up inside

his upper lip, and offers it around.
the skipper cuts a corner off a fragrant plug
of klondike, and with fiery eyes and a grin

that stretches to both ears, he points a gnarled
thumb out beyond the anchored
hulks, and reminds his friends of the night

they battled fifty-foot swells, and thought they
were the last they'd ever see, until their
patron saint came through and brought

them home.it was all so long ago, yet
it stirs in them a longing, a hunger
for the challenge of the raging beast,

and the days and nights they shared
in reaping its rich harvest― days now forever
gone.storm clouds roll in― it's time to head

for home.tomorrow they'll be here again― but,
just in case, a hearty handshake
and a smile all round.