Bruce Cockburn

Wind across the quay-side
Grit in my eyes and fish in my nose
White as whalebone, wheeling seagulls cry
Outside the bar in the high-street
Blind fingers spin an accordeon reel
Shoes and sedan wheels grudgingly keeping time
Fishing boat stretched out at low tide
Dog and a black man work on the deck
Bright as a bottle, sunlight skips wave to wave
Part of a map of somewhere
Teases my foot like a haunting dream
Never so free, i'm lost in the seagulls' flight
Sheffield, Eng. -- //