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.