Nun-buoy quivers on a seine net,
two trawlers cut the wet
bonnet of fog, sky sags, world
stands still, holding Nova Scotia
like a bubble under its tongue.
The town seems to cower,
a clapboard brood
clinging to that hole in the earth.
All colour subdued,
as if seen through an ink smudge
or coal dust, ash. Toddlers
wobble then begin to wail. A black
Lab, head cocked, trains its ear
to a murmur in the crust —
Twenty-six men, their necks bristling,
food in their stomachs and
I was the last
to see that wall
of daylight recede, to feel my grip
slip from the sprag.