Fishwives
of Staithes.
Beneath
unearthly troubled skies,
An
army of our women rise.
To
search out the horizons wave,
A
Coble of fish brings home the brave.
Arms
folded tight, tongues a' wag..
They
hope, they sew, fold dusty rag.
A
day is full of worries too,
The
rocks had taken a Schooner crew.
And
when the catch is sold,
Can
eat a crust without the mold.
Their
husbands work be done,
Until
next rising of the sun.
Her
apron crisp and clean,
Is
more than it would seem.
And
the wagging tongues of wives,
Gut
fish faster, than tempered knives.
No comments:
Post a Comment