Eight bells on board. Ashore it’s four o’clock.
Time for a drink, the tourists and I think.
The terrace on the waterfront is chock-
a-block with whistles warbling for the clink
of glasses pushed along the long bar’s zinc
and on to trays the waitress swishes out
to praise in all the languages that shout
discretely – we are civilised, though dry –
as sailing Europe pushes the boat out
and wine regales us all with glasses high.