Back to the green deeps of the outer bay 
 The red and amber currents glide and cringe, 
 Diminishing behind a luminous fringe 
 Of cream-white surf and wandering wraiths of spray. 
 Stealthily, in the old reluctant way, 
 The red flats are uncovered, mile on mile, 
 To glitter in the sun a golden while. 
 Far down the flats, a phantom sharply grey, 
 The herring weir emerges, quick with spoil. 
 Slowly the tide forsakes it. Then draws near, 
 Descending from the farm-house on the height, 
 A cart, with gaping tubs. The oxen toil 
 Sombrely o'er the level to the weir, 
 And drag a long black trail across the light.