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
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