Compass Point Lullabies for Emily
Some-one re-threads a fishing rod by torchlight
then re-beads the line with Ugie Droplets.
Later he reels in newspaper then walks homewards.
Waves crack their knuckles on shadowed sea-walls
and suck their teeth through rust-ribbed lobsterpots.
At the sailing club, sails dry into the night.
A woman closes shutters like oak eyelids.
Instead of milk-pails, men pile up oil-drums
to blot the moon. Their hearts tick in time to
the spattering pipelines and rain on hard-hats.
They shine torches on skeins instead of helicopters.
Combine harvesters hum into the night –
spitting stems in wake across rutted earth.
Sparrows chorus with the farmer’s whistles.
They guide him home, flitting between branches.
unpublished poem, © Magnus Dixon 2019, used by permission of the author.