DOWN at the docks--when the smoke clouds lie, <br />Wind-ript and red, on an angry sky-- <br />Coal-dumps and derricks and piled-up bales, <br />Tar and the gear of forgotten sails, <br />Rusted chains and a broken spar <br />(Yesterday's breath on the things that are) <br />A lone, black cat and a snappy cur, <br />Smell of high-tide and of newcut fir, <br />Smell of low-tide, fish, weed!--I swear <br />I love every blessed smell that's there-- <br />For, aeons ago when the sea began, <br />My soul was the soul of a sailorman. <br /> <br />Down at the docks--where the ships come in, <br />And the endless trails of the sea begin, <br />Where the shining wake of a steamer's track <br />Is barred by the tow of the tugboats black, <br />Where slim yachts dip to the singing spray <br />And a gay wind whistles the world away-- <br />Here sad ships lie which will sail no more, <br />But new ships build on the noisy shore, <br />And always the breath of the wind and tide <br />Whispers the lure of the sea outside, <br />Till now and to-morrow and yesterday <br />Are linked by the spell of the faraway! <br /> <br />Down at the docks--when the morning's new <br />And the air is gold and the distance blue, <br />There's a pull at the heart! But best of all <br />Is to see the sun shrink, red and small, <br />While the fog steals in (more surely fleet <br />Than the smacks that run from her white-shod feet) <br />And clamours of startled calls arise <br />From bewildered ships that have lost their eyes; <br />The fog horn bellows its deep-mouthed shout, <br />The little lights on the shore blur out <br />And strange, dim shapes pass wistfully <br />With a secret tide to a secret sea.<br /><br />Isabel Ecclestone Mackay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/down-at-the-docks/
