At the north-eastern end of the island,
an end extended by makeshift piers,
narrow planks floating on oil barrels,
sampans ride the harsh glint of the sea.
Fires in the water are ghosts of the sun.
Past the small brick customs office
boat-riders bob, as if still at sea,
smelling of fish, motor oil and tarpaulin.
Their hands are empty trawling nets.
The sea hawks its old throat and spits.
Three boys leaning over a wooden bridge
lower into water their crabbing nets,
and wait, expecting something close
to land will side-walk into their hands,
some years too young to launch a boat.