Off Season

It's not far from the motorbus station
To the waterside-watching café,
Its wicker chairs' sole occupation:
Serving revellers down for the day.

They sit there and gaze down the quay
While wondering how muddy the creek
And riverbed bottom must be,
And more they're unwilling to speak.

A thin rain soaks the clothes of the walkers,
Who lean on the railing to spit –
They're watching, they're surely no talkers
And mistrust any laughter or wit.

MacMurdoch stands scowling and glaring
At his hook always losing its bait.
He restores it and stands again, staring –
He is old, and a great one to wait;

And the waiters, collecting their tips,
Are yawning with sleep and ennui
To the sound of the water that drips
In the river, the creek, and the sea.