2 January 2013
Echoing crashes of waves on timber, The boats are tossed as feathers in a breeze; The trawlers return from a day of labour, Yachts are sailing across the stormy seas.
A craggy coast meets the cobbled quayside, The ancient erosion of water on stone; A scuttling crab - stranded 'til high tide, Crawls over rock pools unto his dark home.
But all the while, when the strong winds doth blow, A lady walks quietly down Market Street. Ambling down to her comfortable home, Her homebound loved-one - an angler - to greet.
The church bells resonate down Irsha Street: St Mary's communion about to commence; A fisherman cries along the Quay: "Whole Cod or Plaice, for one and sixpence."
A flock of terns, as swift as the wind, Flies through the sky as darkness creeps out. The weary sun retreats to its lair, The stars step forth from their hidden redoubt.
Nothing can ease the crashing sea's will, But Appledore rests, silent and still.
This poem is based on a fishing village in North Devon, called Appledore.
Ode To Appledore • Opuss № I