There is no twinkle

There is no twinkle

In a dead dog’s eye

Or comfort in the smoke

Curling from the pipes

Of the fish wives

Drinking beer

Playing gin rummy

On an upturned barrel

Outside an Alehouse

Waiting for the trawlers

Hoping for a safe return

A good catch

And no more sorrow

Too many sons and husbands

Lost at sea

Too many wives done grieving

The village is dying

There is no heart left

To speak of

Even the cats have packed a bag

Upped and gone

To seek their fortune

Inland

Where the smokestacks

Belch their poison

Out into the sky

Everything is grey

Under the pale sun

So the travellers say

And the women

Work in darkness

Tending the loom

There are few old-timers

With all ten fingers

And fewer men

Without black lung

Nobody gets older

The nights are so much colder

Perhaps the sea

Will turn out to be

No more dangerous

Than a pit head

After all

A good catch

Can change everything

Even the outlook