The Herring Weir

Back to the green deeps of the outer bay
     The red and amber currents glide and cringe,
     Diminishing behind a luminous fringe
   Of cream-white surf and wandering wraiths of spray.
   Stealthily, in the old reluctant way,
     The red flats are uncovered, mile on mile,
     To glitter in the sun a golden while.
   Far down the flats, a phantom sharply grey,
   The herring weir emerges, quick with spoil.
    Slowly the tide forsakes it. Then draws near,
    Descending from the farm-house on the height,
  A cart, with gaping tubs. The oxen toil
    Sombrely o'er the level to the weir,
    And drag a long black trail across the light.