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Island Fishermen: St. Simon's
With sunset now and ripening of the tide,
The day’s bright catch a thing for memory,
Fishermen bronze as nets the sun has dried
Turn to a smaller doorway than the sea,
Taking the dim streets in a motley crowd,
Their salty words and laughter lifting higher,
Leaving the gulls behind them in a cloud,
The small boats rocking, arguing with the pier.
Deserted and forgotten now with night
The boats grow lonely like old fishermen,
Knowing no voice, no flare of cigarette
To break the darkness settling warm and plain,
Only the echo of a wave’s far roar,
A pale wind breathing silver to the shore.