This morning I strolled to the harbour
To watch the fishermen paint their boats
Or mend their nets with a spinster’s patience,
Mesmerized by their unravelling.
They squat as if destined to be painted,
Dress for an Impressionist canvas,
Utterly at peace with their time and space.
Their boats coloured from a palette of dreams
Each in bold contrast to its neighbour
Green to yellow, red to electric blue
As sharp as the mid-day horizon.
And if they sail late, which they rarely do,
They sail with the insouciance of men
Guaranteed a cooling breeze
And an azure sea shoaled with sardines.
For they are twice blessed with honest lives,
Wine and song, gentle consummation,
And a yearning, a yearning for something,
Always just over the next horizon.