Fishermen’s wharf

What primal bond brings me again and again
To this beauteous spot, in my dreams may be,
Though visited once in a lifetime !
Wizardry of square-cut oaks
Weaves a promenade of near-smooth planks,
Peninsula-evoking,
Perching on a line of piers
That pierce the placid green of the bay.

Bonanza of gaiety greets the chips-weary world.
Even the cripple’s melancholy wheels into transient oblivion.
Lashing whips from Neptune’s hand
Bite the face, make the baby wince and cry.
Elders smirk.

Beside, over the railing, long lines plunge from the fishing rods
Levered by mute expectation standing behind.
Have a peep, if you like, at the stirring float.

A bunch of butterflies, those yachts of myriad hues,
Huddle together on one bank,
Bidding their time to swarm out in the coming dawn.
Be lured into the dazzling cabin to your right
Where they serve chowder and cedar cheese,
While outside, white-cream wings of sea-gulls
Dance in airy waves;
In harmony squeak the sea-lions that bask in the sun,
Down on the grids.
As I lean and watch, mind unbridled, feelings flow with the sea,
Delving as if to seek out the long-lost world.