Once they moored the fishing boats
that went out on the bay
But now they sit with dandelions
on sunny, summer days

Placed in a field back from the beach
with just a view of shore
Stone Island ground, those days are gone
boats don't go anymore

The blacksmith forged them in his fire
near eighty years ago
And they hooked in Stone Island ground
when western wind did blow

They kept the skiffs securely moored
with their heads up to the west
As hand-lines hauled the fish aboard
in sun, or fog, or mist

But now they spend their time ashore
and wildflowers grow around
The dandelions spread round about
for they are on shore bound

These grapnels that were once a part
of the daily lives of men
Lie now among the dandelions
won't go to sea again.

Wayne Taylor
Bonavista