EASTERN SHORE He stands and walks as if his knees were tensed To a pitching dory. When he looks far off You think of trawl-kegs rolling in the trough Of swaying waves. He wears a cap against The sun on water, but his face is brown As an old mainsail, from the eyebrows down. He has grown old as something used and known Grows old with custom; each small fading scar Engrained by use and wear in plank and spar, In weathered wood and iron, and flesh and bone. But youth lurks in the squinting eyes, and in The laughter wrinkles in the tanbark skin. You know his story when you see him climb The lookout hill. You know that age can be A hill of looking; and the swaying sea A lifetime marching with the waves of time. Listen – the ceaseless cadence, deep and slow. Tomorrow. Now. And years and years ago.
	© Harry Bruce, All Rights Reserved