Islanders
Islanders
O the islanders may love the sea
When in its halcyon mood,
Since it’s in their blood, for ill or good,
As none knows better than they
Their heart-enchanting sea.
Or the islanders may dread the sea
Which keeps them from their darlings;
They may loathe its storms and sullen calms
And the deep inconstancy
Which moves their tameless sea.
But the islanders may hate the sea
When in its dangerous mood,
Though it’s in their blood, for ill or good,
As none knows better than they
Their cruel, remorseless sea.
Or the islanders may fight the sea –
Its tides, waves, currents, weathers –
When the salty tangs upon their tongues
Taste of sweat and blood to they
In an aggressive sea.
But the islanders may sail the sea
To travel, trade or sport there,
Since it’s in their blood, for ill or good,
Whatever their feelings be
Towards their circling sea.
Or the islanders may farm the sea
For all that it possesses
Though they little gain without the pain
Of laboured persistency
Amid the teeming sea.
O the islanders may love the sea
Or dread, hate, fight, sail, farm it;
But it’s in their blood, for ill or good,
For so long as memory
Reminds them of the sea –
Their ever-changing sea.
