The New Armada

A boat breaks from the harbour wall,
wallows gently in the dusk,
the colours, dipping bright and black,
fallen lately into rust
as her rudder nudges wavetops
wheel knocks hand to idle hand
while on her deck the donkey engine
chatters chains up from the sand
and beyond the distance, Spanish lights
festoon the fish beguiled so that
her motors sing in emptiness like
some deep, forgotten child,
while the new armada plunders
golden cod and silver hake, her nets
lay torn, unmended,
tangled swaddling in the grave
of a Lazarus dissected, rising
no more from the wave