(This is a tribute to the fishing folk of Whitby, England. A mention is made of chips in the poem, which in the USA I believe are called fries!)
SAFE HANDS
The cupped hands
of Whitby harbour
waiting to welcome
them home
however wild
the callous waves
and spray, and salt
and foam
some will be lost
most will be saved
bringing fishy flesh
to deep-fried chips
boats will rise
on a lively swell
and sink, as
the North Sea dips
not brave to work
in an office
or plough
a country field
it’s sailing back
as a gale whips up
last church bells
long since pealed
the kids are
now fast asleep
but the wife is
nervously pacing
stirring simmering
evening meal
as her heart beats
slow, then racing
tears come, when
she hears the door
so much later
than expected
relieved to have
the big man back
still smiling, and
unaffected
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sense of anticipation as I read. Kept in safe hands of the Almighty! What a wonderful poem! ; D