Compass-Point Lullabies for Emily

North 

Some-one re-threads a fishing rod by torchlight 

then re-beads the line with Ugie Droplets. 

Later he reels in newspaper then walks homewards. 

East 

Waves crack their knuckles on shadowed sea-walls 

and suck their teeth through rust-ribbed lobsterpots. 

At the sailing club, sails dry into the night. 

A woman closes shutters like oak eyelids. 

South 

Instead of milk-pails, men pile up oil-drums 

to blot the moon. Their hearts tick in time to 

the spattering pipelines and rain on hard-hats. 

They shine torches on skeins instead of helicopters. 

West 

Combine harvesters hum into the night – 

spitting stems in wake across rutted earth. 

Sparrows chorus with the farmer’s whistles. 

They guide him home, flitting between branches.