Before day morning, at cockcrow and firstlight,
our island is washed by the sea which has been
cleaning itself down with foamweed and sponge.
Fishermen who toiled all night and caught trash
let down their seines again on the off chance.
The never-get-weary-yet cast off and their nets
will break from abundance. On land, the feeding
trees or kotch-hotels of egrets, bird-bush lodges,
start to empty of perch occupants flown in pursuit
of proverb’s worm. The faithful night watchman
will punch the clock and so end dark night’s shift.
He earns the right to strike a match, light first fire...