The swans in twos would sail along,
Along the grimy pier;
The winds were wet; the seas were strong;
The captain smelt like beer;
The harbour-master hummed a song
And hauled a salty rope among
The passengers and gear.
The waters where the colours float
Did not seem very deep;
Upon the stones a fishing boat,
Its ribs were pale and steep;
A hobo crumpled in a heap,
His crinkled eyes were shut with sleep,
His head lay on his coat.
I understand it now; the way
That life has slipped aside,
While I was watching by the bay
For something great, and wide;
And waters wash up every day
We things that have been thrown away,
We articles of tide.
Copyright © Thomas Clark 2013
Thomas Clark is a Glaswegian author, poet and filmmaker based in the Scottish Borders. Writing in Scots and English, his work has been featured in Southlight, Lallans and The Eildon Tree among others. He can be found on the web at twitter.com/ClashCityClarky