are the forms of the cash dealers,

potato peelers, fish reelers;

smoking a last cigarette and gazing

towards the moort-streamed, light beamed sea

are the pale artists, the faint hearted,

the new lovers and old losers.

Houses sleep, boats bob in the bay,

but at high windows when the eyes of the town

are shut,

some see the gentle sun make a new day of an old deep night.

The dogs of that night pad a silent street, furtive eyed cats stare at quailing meat, dew drops bless the bike slumped against the fence, and make tears on the lashes of the sleeper beneath a tree.