Red as a garnet in the setting sun
The old cathedral ringed by castle walls
Guards like a sentinel, when day is done,
The slumber of the port,
Still echoing with seagulls’ calls.
And where the fisher girls with noisy sport
Plied their deft knives
The barrels stand as replete as aldermen
In solemn conclave.
The stream a crimson ribbon threads the mud
And chiming clocks record the passing lives
O’er many a grassy grave.
The fishing smacks lean to the silent quay
And all the loud activity
Is hushed, and folded in the drapes of night;
While, darkening like the ebbing blood,
The far-receding western wave
Gathers against return of morning light.
Mona’s Herald 13.11.62