East Coast Port

The sailor stood above the quay And watched the stirring sights below. Overhead, the sky was blue, But the sea was pure ultramarine, Gashed with white choppy waves. From the ships there came the call Of orders, the clanging of bells, The squeak of hawser on mooring post, And over all the screaming of sea-gulls. The air, salt and tangy, Was seasoned with oakum and tar, An East Coast Port.

The sailor closed his eyes and was again In fantasy, back in his Western home; There the sky was luminous with heat, And waving grain, golden and ripe, Made a shimmering sea in the sun. Across the fields came the drone And hum of tractor and reaper; On high, a lone hawk swooped toward the land. The odor of remembered things Brought a keen nostalgia.

He had longed for the sea and would someday Be part of its life, but to-day He was just a lonely sailor In an East Coast Port.