Born In A Fishing Village Poem by NIGEL SANDERS

I STARTED FISHING AS A SCHOOLBOY, LIKE MY FATHER AND HIS, BEFORE
ON A TWENTYFOUR FOOT, ONE MAST COBLE, WE USE TO FISH INSHORE
THE SEA IS IN MY BLOOD, SALTWATER FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS
WEATHER BEATEN SKIN LIKE LEATHER, WITH MULTICOLOURED STAINS

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
Six days a week for fishing, one day a week to pray

GRAB THE OARS, A HARD ROW AWAITS, EVEN A WET SAIL NEEDS A BREEZE
LETS HAVE A BREAK FROM POTTING AND LAND SOME HERRING IF YOU PLEASE
TODAYS PICKINGS WILL BE EASY, THE SHOALS A MASSIVE SIZE
AND THE SEA IS LIKE A MILLPOND UNDER HAZY CLOUDLESS SKIES.

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
Six days a week for fishing, one day a week to pray

THE LADEN BOAT WE ROWED ASHORE, OUR CATCH LAY AT OUR FEET
WE FILLED THE WAITING BASKETS AND DRAGGED THEM UP THE STREET
A FEW FOR SUPPER, SOME WOULD BE PICKLED BUT KIPPERS MOST WOULD BE
ON SUNDAY WE WOULD SAY THANK YOU FOR OUR HARVEST FROM THE SEA

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
Six days a week for fishing, one day a week to pray



THE SUMMER IS NOW OVER, TIME TO HUNT THE HADDOCK AND COD
IT'S NOT A FISHING NET WE USE, BUT SCARBOROUGH REEL AND ROD
WE DO NOT HAVE TO TRAVEL FAR AS THE FISH COME CLOSE TO FEED
SEEKING OUT THE PEELER CRABS AMONGST THE ROCKS AND THICK SEAWEED

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
Six days a week for fishing, one day a week to pray

WINTER COMES WITH ALL ITS FORCE, HIGH WINDS AND HEAVY SEAS
EXPOSED SKIN HAS ALL GONE NUMB AND FINGERS START TO FREEZE
THE STORMS THEY ARE A RAGING, THE FLEET IS HARBOUR BOUND
THE WIND LIKE WAILING BANSHEES, AN EERIE HAUNTING SOUND

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
Six days a week for fishing, one day a week to pray

NOW WE HEAR THE DREADFUL NEWS, A BOAT FROM WHITBY LOST
A CHANCE THEY TOOK TO BEAT THE ODDS AT SUCH A TERRIBLE COST
THE WEATHER HAS NOT ABATED THOUGH TWO BODIES HAVE WASHED ASHORE
THE SEA HAS CLAIMED MORE VICTIMS AS IS HAS SO OFT BEFORE

Born in a fishing village, in a Yorkshire east coast bay
No one can go fishing, leaving seven days this week to pray