Annalong

A sleeping giant made of rock,
and the powering tide, pulled by the clock.
Rolling hills, as far as your eyes can see,
spray glittering like diamonds, from the Irish Sea.

Fisherman stand on the edge of the pier, growing old
Throwing their lines in the wind, catching nothing but the cold.
In the ancient harbour, old family boats rock,
on the gentle waves, that flow into the dock.

Children grow old and settle down,
Thinking there’s nothing beyond this little town.
The whole world turns and moves on around it,
While the farmers plough with their ancient relics, confounded.

In the pub, the same men every night...
Drink beer, trade stories, and blind their sight.
The granite industry died, the fish are gone,
The ghosts sit and stew, unable to move on.

Boats bob and rot to bones,
and fields fill with weeds and are left alone.
The stone yard sprayed with graffiti at night,
All the old guard think it’s a shameful sight.

And I am moving on, I am leaving this town.
Running from all that which might hold me down.
I won’t look back, I have nothing to say,
Except so long, Annalong… it’s time we parted ways.