He loved those special days
When the incoming sea
Reached its high water
For afternoon tea,
When he'd sit on his balcony,
Solitary master and host,
And raise his cup to Neptune
In most respectful toast.
He'd sit and remember
With a rueful pride
Slipping past the Bullnose
To sail with the tide.
On to the North Sea, on
To trawl Icelandic cod
Braving the moods of
Those fickle sea gods.
Twenty years later
At just thirty five,
Still deep sea fishing
And still alive,
He'd finally decided
To bring his sea legs ashore.
He'd had enough.
He'd not fish anymore.
And for the rest of his time
Had worked on the docks
Almost in sight of
Those old fishing locks.
Now feeling the cold and
Time to go back inside
Lifted his glass in salute
To the still flowing tide.
