Eyes that look dried up,
leathered skin faces
that are salted barriers,
hardened and silent:
Men near a harbour seem to look the same
where ever you are. Surrounded by seagulls.
Blue anchors on their arms,
and they smoke. Or they chew tobacco.
Sometimes they laugh about something
that happened a long time ago
that they tell each other every day
adding a bit to the story each time. To make it better.
One by one they don’t return in misty mornings,
one by one they are forgotten, but the story gets
better by the day, until they are whispered myths themselves
and the last harbour man walks away into damp.