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.
Definitively Mediterranean
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.
