Silver glinting lobster traps line Yarmouth’s shores
Like long deserted dolls’ town houses piled on high
While wintry bay winds whipping o’er to tidal bores
Bring little scent of lobsters thriving where warm currents lie.
But at tideturn the lobstering adventurous few
Quite undeterred by those weather reports, as it’s their week's sprawl,
Liking rhythm of working whole year through,
Wake to routine’s call, load the four hundred trap trawl.
Swept out to sea with these outgoing waters ,
Prepared to rough three hardy days all steady so,
Anchored alone monitoring at close quarters
The ins and outs of ocean’s wealth in traps below.
Pounds hundred thousand trapped, their traps then freed of all,
Streamlined as its sunset, Yarmouth receives the wholesome haul.