Seaward there is but light and the faint plume
Of distant ship low down. Gales from the west
Have ceased at last as if there were no more
Good reason to bring home the ships for whom
Wait lands once populous but now unblessed
With habitation or with human lore.
The smoke of that far steamer still doth loom
As a dark blur which slowly fades to rest,
Like the dim memory of the days of yore
Before the busy past had rolled to doom.
In all the wide world, far as eye can see,
From this white strand, as bare it lies to-day,
That remote trace of smoke that dies away
Is the sole sign of man’s activity
Weekly Times 21.9.62