This circling of gulls and dry, raucous cry
Aloft whiting boats and low, dullish sky;
Sailors, fishing, pull writhing, scaly catch
Onto sliding flags from dark, stinking hatch.
A solitary man fronts lashing, driving rain,
Striding against cyclonic storms in vain;
And still wild surgings fling against this wall,
Off-wind part of harbor, cobb's arm and all.
And slowly, sun sinks and moon brings light,
Warm tidal flows lap on quay through night;
Soft music of autumn plays on this wild day;
Storms past, with yachts a-bob on a calm bay.
Gold trophy winner
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