The Edge

sagres fisherman


They stand on the edge of all they know.
From Sagres the Navigator sailed.
But dreams of the new no longer glow –
in hearts of the bold that urge has failed.

They know there’s another world, of course.
But Europe’s recoiled, the centre’s where
decisions are made. Here alien force
meets shrug of the shoulder, vacant stare.

The camper vans come for milky sun,
the surfers in search of breaker’s crest,
the hippies chill out, the joggers run –
but end has arrived for locals’ quest.

They perch on the cliff to fish for bream,
the perilous drop unseen appears,
their ancestors once here dreamed a dream,
but vision has clouded with the years.

Cold Protestant lands now rule the day –
on Germany now it all depends.
Four hundred a month is poor man’s pay.
Horizon begins. Horizon ends.

Rupert Moreton

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