The roiling black thunderhead partially obscures the sun,
Hovering over the landscape in melodramatic counterpoint
To the glimmering light of late evening.
I cast frequent glances across the swelling tide
Toward the harbour at the other side of the bay,
Trying to locate the boat that should already have left.
The faint aroma of a turf fire drifts up from the village,
Inspiring a fragrant nostalgic recollection
Of a youthful summer holiday job from my ever receding past.
Eventually a sail appears, as the skiff tacks into the wind
On an oblique course for the jetty below.
I slowly wander down to the shore to meet it,
In contented anticipation of fresh-caught fish for supper.