The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the
Is blown across the stormy bay.
Etched clear upon the pallid
Lies the black boat: a sailor
Clambers aboard in careless
With laughing face and gleaming hand.
And overhead the curlews cry,
Where through the dusky upland
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.
