As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.

Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.

Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.

Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay.  Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,

Breda Ware