The Trawler


I sat upon the quay and watched the trawler splutter past
Towards the bay and then the mountains of the sea,
And in its wake hung an explosion full of noisy screeching gulls
Expecting fish heads freshly guillotined for tea.
And it all seemed quite romantic as it chugged past Hackenshall
But then those pounding and relentless ocean waves,
Beneath the scarred and bloody skies far from the safety of the land
Have taken countless working trawlers to their graves.
There’s a stall in the museum dedicated to their lives,
With reams of names of all the lost and all the dead.
The effect is somewhat marred by the inclusion of a gull
So badly stuffed that one eye’s hanging from its head.

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