The Boats Come Home

    Spray flew from their bows as they carved back to land
    100 foot long, and narrow gutted
    Surfing in on the incoming tide 
    Full bags of Bluffs best stacked for the opening
    Men in bush shirts and Swannis, crowded into small galleys
    To wrap cold fingers around hot mug's cup of coffee
    Drying and shaking their hair
    Joshing each other as mates do

    The wires and stays are taunt and the dredges rattle 
    As the skipper steers his Golden boat home
    The swell pushing them makes for a clean run
    To Port and home
    To be greeted by scurrying fitters welders
    To repair the damage of the day
    Draping coils of welding gear aboard
    Over benches cleaned by the sea and wind

    The repairs are made and bags winched away
    The engine checked over for another day
    Tomorrow when once again the strait will
    Hold its harvest deep and throw wind and rain
    Sea water and foam at the Golden boats. 

 Ewan Elliott
 04 July 99

Copyright (c) Ewan Elliott


   Trialling complacency in the face of overwhelming proof
   Of mass graves dug and found, containing naught but...
   "It can't have been us We would have made a better job"
        "You would never have found them"
         "It must have been someone else"

Ewan Elliott
05 July 1999