Spindrift line of silver grey Tide on the turn Red stain of paint Across the harbour ground Hemp ropes are straining Against Hulls wedged in sand The freshening wind Throws fresh spots of rain Drawn lines of grey From the cloud’s edge
Behind the harbour wall A narrowing beach The water rushes in The dark mouth of the cave Hides a smuggler’s tale Sea worn Smooth steps No tread White walls and narrow lanes Cling to the edge Juxtaposed at odd angles Misshapen doors and windows Signify age and subsidence Strange names etched of Spanish vowels and Cornish girls Do tell of strange liaisons Stranger trades of contraband And tax laws Evasion and subterfuge Do tunnels lead dreckly to the shore As Poldark would have us to believe? Dark tales in this traditional scene So easily conjured there.
My Devon Life 