wrapped in the mantle of scarlet sun my skiff

and I drifted through the crayola buoys

      bobbing in the dusky harbour

      a strange lavender lily

      with a thinking pistil

watching  the lobster boats thrum slowly up the

      golden-throated river

      single file

like purring birds their bellies full of greeny

      briny bonded claws and

      cannibal eyes

      chugging

back to the grey plank docks cooling their legs

      in the black salt shadows

back to the grey shingle houses where the

      deft-handed bait packer

has left her reticule of herring to make

      a party

      of steak and beer

      for the fisherpeople

                                                                        Cynthia Buell Thomas