Waves lapping at the shore
Where the ghosts of smugglers still roam in tunnels undiscovered
The fragrance of their contraband trapped in the stillness of the air
Beneath the unmarked grave lies a story yet to be recovered
Where turf was lifted then replaced before the dawn with care
Perhaps those tales are of a past best left to remain uncovered
For there were those who turned to the wall to avoid the stare
Upon the darkest nights the moon again hides her face
There is no lantern swinging to guide away from rocks
The boat no longer filled with brandy casks or finest foreign lace
A path beyond the cove is now a refuge for different flocks
Bodies disembark upon the shingle beach and embrace
There are no excise men and villagers no longer fear the knocks
This landing upon a foreign shore now marks a journey’s end
Life-jackets are discarded as tired figures clamber up the slope
Fleeing danger and peril that many find hard to comprehend
Now they seek a future on these shores looking to us with hope
Their tragedy and needs so clear and yet they seem to offend
Where is the compassion and empathy faith should evoke
Now people are the pawns forming the smugglers’ contraband
Each day the boats are launched each day there are more
They are the jetsam of dictatorship we pretend not to understand
Look at their suffering then tell me why we slam shut the door
See how their faces are alight with joy as they tread the sand
Yet hope comes then recedes like the waves lapping at the shore
Copyright: David Hopcroft March 2023
Park Bench Tales and other writings 