The sails are slack against the morning sun,
Whispering wavelets part to let us through.
The night was long and hard, the dawn shines blue
And gold, the nets are full, the work is done.
We yawn and stretch, and cap each brimming tun
For transport to the town, nailing it true;
Set tillers for the beach. The day is new
But we are old and tired and sere and dun.
Then on the air a smell of charcoal fire
And frying fish caresses us from land:
Who is that waving in the curls of smoke?
The bow grounds on the sand; we pull it higher,
And recognize, and run, as the raised hand
Becomes the Risen, calling laden folk.
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