Huddled round smoking fires,

driftwood warmth in a bitter winter,

women without men, they waited.

They knew in advance, smelt it

in the salt air, felt it

in the merest shift of breeze.

Fingers picked at nets,

empty without men, pressed men,

gone. Mothers, dumb with hunger,

waited, eyes fixed on lanterns and sticks.

The wind turned and tore down

horizons; compass points reeled.

Walls of darkness ripped

from sea flung themselves

against night sky. Daughters danced

on cliffs, sulphur lights drawing in

the wind-steered ship.

On the shore the women waited

whilst timbers split, their merciless hands

on lanterns and sticks.