In a valley in the broken hills,
That run down to the sea
Is a little fishing village
Where my heart will always be.
On the shore down from the house
Lying on its bed of stone
Sits father’s old fishing stage-
So empty, sad, forlorn!
The doors swing freely in the breeze,
Its roof is bent and bare.
And round the splitting table,
Just the ghosts of yesteryear.
Such a stillness in the air.
Just the whisper of the wind.
But in my mind, i clearly see,
The boats are coming in.
The women gaze out from the flake
The kids run down the lane.
The boats steam past the harbour rock
Their bellies full again.
There’s such a joy in the air tonight,
You can see it in the men.
Little do they realize,
Their world is soon to end!
For their cod traps and their fishing stage,
For a hundred years or more
Fed those fishing families
When the cod swam to the shore.
(but) there’s a city on the sea tonight,
From countries far and near.
Their great steel draggers, lust and greed
Robbing that which we love dear.
So as i rescue father’s stage,
From falling in the sea.
I wonder if my children’s kids
Will be as blessed as me.
Again will ever boys and girls,
Feel the sense of joy,
That i knew in my father’s stage,
When i was just a boy.
If the politicians of our land,
When they were boy and girl,
Had lessons learned in father’s stage,
We’d have a better world!
Had lessons learned in father’s stage,
We’d have a better world!
-DAVID BOYD, NOV. 2011