Asturian Fishing Ports Poem by Robert Melliard

The pungent sea-smell lingers everywhere
as you stroll down to the quay.
You see signs of firm identity
like life-belts, bollards, lobster pots,
green, flimsy-looking nets,
thick ropes and rusty chains.

Then there are boats of course
with their perky buoyancy,
sleekness, ship-shape decks
and bright, brave colours.

You shiver slightly when you think
of storms they have to ride
and you admire the lithe, tough men
who work in them; but soon
the smell of cooking draws you in
to a bustling, noisy restaurant
and you sample the freshest fish
or the tastiest crab you could wish for.