Survival of The Sprats

Waves rolling on a lonely sea

And the waking sun glowing red

Half obscured by cotton wool clouds

And the seagulls flying fancy free

The fishermen haul in their nets

A thousand fish, or maybe more

Take their dying breath and let

Fate take its toll

Sailing slowly on the ebbing tide

The trawlers head for the harbour

Their course is not at all wide

As they dock by the quay

Leaving the dawn catch

The fishermen head for the “Fishermen’s rest”

With pints and pies in hand

They down all that’s best

The cod and mackeral sigh in dismay

But the sprats have got away

They turn around with winking eyes

To say their last goodbyes

© Andrea Coltman