(This is a tribute to the fishing folk of Whitby, England. A mention is made of chips in the poem, which in the USA I believe are called fries!) <br /> <br />SAFE HANDS <br /> <br />The cupped hands <br />of Whitby harbour <br />waiting to welcome <br />them home <br /> <br />however wild <br />the callous waves <br />and spray, and salt <br />and foam <br /> <br />some will be lost <br />most will be saved <br />bringing fishy flesh <br />to deep-fried chips <br /> <br />boats will rise <br />on a lively swell <br />and sink, as <br />the North Sea dips <br /> <br />not brave to work <br />in an office <br />or plough <br />a country field <br /> <br />it’s sailing back <br />as a gale whips up <br />last church bells <br />long since pealed <br /> <br />the kids are <br />now fast asleep <br />but the wife is <br />nervously pacing <br /> <br />stirring simmering <br />evening meal <br />as her heart beats <br />slow, then racing <br /> <br />tears come, when <br />she hears the door <br />so much later <br />than expected <br /> <br />relieved to have <br />the big man back <br />still smiling, and <br />unaffected<br /><br />Paul Judges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/safe-hands/
