Something in the Air
Somewhere beyond these
harbour walls
Behind all those redundant
Masts
and summer tourist clutter
The sound of
once returning fishing boats
now moored
do still idle, cough and splutter
Yet,
in candled windows shuttered
and
in shadowed doorways yonder
All the widows huddle, knitting
tablecloths and folding curtains
Now
they just embroider face masks
and hand crochet, these oh’ so
very silly
pointless doilies
while the old men sit in semi-circles
around their
half empty wooden tables
Playing cards and telling stories
There must be something,
surely in the air, they chorused …