Safe Hands Poem by Paul Judges

(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