Like poppies and daffodils, the lobster buoys dot the bay
and as the flowers sway in the breeze the floats bob in the waves.
Terns and seagulls dive and cry at the bait on the boat decks,
lobstermen laugh at them, throwing a piece now and then into the air.
Hands rough with the work and bones that ache with the sea,
theirs are eyes that do not see the beauty of the shore's fall colors,
nor smell the crisp clean air of autumn. 
They pull on the buoy lines and haul in the catch,
only the smell of the sea is in their nostrils.
The sons and daughters out playing in the fields of red and white
some day will grow beyond the sea, beyond the callused look of gray.