The harbour

 

The conversational clinking of yachts in the harbour,

The running commentary of current affairs,

Ropes and dreams blowing gently in the sea breeze,

The water waves away your daily life’s cares.

 

Spinnakers fluttering resisting its bound restraints,

Hinting at their rainbow of unbridled colours,

Gleaming hulls flying their forest of floating flagpoles,

Trying everything to outshine all the others.

 

The melodic beat on the dock as the tide enters,

Its regular visits bring nutrients to wildlife,

Always politely knocking and waving as it comes,

Familiar greeting like a kiss by a loving wife.

 

The shrill alarm calls from overhead attack flocks,

The ultimate scavengers on constant watch,

Discarded chips, crusts and cornetto cones count,

As their favourite five a day to dive and catch.

 

An ancient cry sporadically bounces around me,

Echoing of the sea pounded harbour walls,

Selling the catch of the day at sale fish prices now,

Drawing in customers with their loud calls.

 

The bustling activity in an aging community hub,

The harbour is lazily wandering through time,

Lagging behind its affluent commuter population,

Attracted by its famously low rates of crime.

 

With the very best sea air money can buy you,

A little piece of history on your own doorstep,

The right move just for you on the market place,

A must have for any new high flying sales rep.

 

With the modern world getting away from it all,

On the unsafety checked cobblestone roads,

Under the rust covered cranes waiting for a haul,

Standing patiently for their long gone loads.

 

The ingrained smell of seafront business wafts,

Out of every crevasse of each aged flagstone,

Trodden in by generations of expert fishermen,

Their trade taking hundreds of years to hone.

 

Sitting down in the middle of this timeless vista,

The seafront line of the invasion of the new,

The harbour where old traditions come to dock,

Sit down with an iced tea and enjoy the view.

 

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