One Winter's Eve

The waters of the fishing village cove lie calm and black,
Black is the sky o'er head; no star is seen; a storm is drawing nigh,
Down by the wharves, fishing boats and smacks,
Tug gently at their lines in the tidal surge, and seem to sigh,
And long to be again once more upon the sea's broad track,
Where the Storm Petrel tiptoes lightly o'er the waves, that sing his lullaby.

The road around the cove is a ribbon of snow hard packed,
By rubber booted  feet that make their way,
To and from the boats and back each day they make their track, 
Worn by men who eke a meager living; and by their toil they work the years away,
Weathered faces fraught with lines and bodies that by pain are wracked,
Part of the life they have chosen and all they have ever known.

On the slipways through the gloom is seen, the shape of o'er turned skiffs,
Formless they sleep beneath the snow, awaiting the vernal magic that calls the springtime,
And brings the sun that lies below the Line and then the ice will shift,
Become a memory subliminal of winter harsh, of bitter cold and rime,
Blue irises will bloom again within the swamp as white clouds drift,
While summer' s  warmth spreads like a blanket over all.

Upon the hill that runs down to the waters edge; small children coast,
Past the general store that stands midway the rise,
Where old men sit on hob or benches while they boast,
Of many the fish they caught; of halibut that were of trophy size,
And shadows from the oil lamp's flickering flame evoke a scene from Faust,
The snow flakes softly start to fall, telling of the sou' easter soon to come,


A buoy far at sea makes mournful groan, the lighthouse throws it's flare against the overcast,
Harbingers of the southeast gale now poised to strike, bringing with it snow and blinding hail,
The shop keeper closes up his store; the men start home;  another early winter day has past,
And one says to the others, as they go their separate ways; "The way she's lookin' now, the boys won't sail. "
The  soft flakes float down so whisper soft, and one says in reply, "She's makin' awful fast ! "
" We'll be gettin' out our shovels, so that Ed can bring the mail. "

One by one the windows of the houses darken, the wind begins to blow, and swirl the snow,
The cattle in the barns are lowing softly; the hens within their coops; talk in their sleep,
A dog fox barks in sharp reply to one in Jim Burke's pens, his shining pelt as black as any crow,
And then from Hodgsons Hill to Andy Gammon's, and from Emery's pens upon the hill so steep,
One by one they join the mid night chorus, barking and howling as the snow piles deep.
Accompanied by the sound of the waves that break upon the shore.

DGC