Even tide,

Even tide,

When boats come in

From days at sea,

Old, barnacle encrusted

Flat bottoms,

That scrape

Across sandbanks.

On decks like these,

Gnarled old hands

Count crabs,

Check for un-made

Oyster beds.

Collect lobster pots,

Until the sun sets.

Old farmers,

Trudge home,

Over brown fields.

Boots clogged

With living clay,

Turned by the plough,

And pulled

By a chestnut mare,

Who walks the same path,

Every day.

But always seems

To find the strength

To gallop,

When released,

Into a run

Of new pasture.

When the sun sets,

And daylight ends,

With dying embers

Cooling in the grate,

We dim the lights

And lie together.

Worn from struggle,

Wearied by the passing

Of days,

And wait for dawn.

When we catch the tide,

Plant the seed,

And grow,

Into the day,

Filled with pride.

We have the strength,

The heart still beats

Within us,

Though we feel

Every cautious stride,

We live our days,

We work at life.

Until even tide.