The Coloured long-shore fishermen unfurl
their nets beside the chilly and unrested sea,
and in their heads the little dawn-winds whirl
some scraps of gambling, drink and lechery.


Barefoot on withered kelp and broken shell,
they toss big baskets on the brittle turf,
then with a gamber's bitter patience still
slap down their wagering boat upon the surf.

Day flips a golden coin- but they mock it.
With colloused, careless hands they reach
deep down into the sea's capacious pocket
and pile their silver chips upon the beach