Линкольн Росс Колкорд (Lincoln Ross Colcord)

The Fishing Fleet

Brown sails of fishing boats
On a sea of jade,
Startled at early dawn,
Fleeing afraid.

Far as the eye can see
Into the sun,
Count we their endless fleet
One by one.

Dim foreign hills in sight
There on the beam;
Voices, now close aboard –
Like ghosts they seem.

Brown sails on fishing boats
On a sea of jade,
Leaving on either hand
The wake we made.

Yellow foam of breaking waves
On a jade-green sea;
Brown junks and brown sails
Windward and lee.

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