They stand on the quayside and wait
Strain for the sound of the fleet
Counting the men on the deck
Never admitting defeat

The ghosts of womanhood past
Singing the mystical songs
Grief never far from the eyes
Awaiting the righting of wrongs

The temperature today is rising
Anger boils down in the deep
The fruit that was there for the taking
Seems to be a foreigner’s keep

The ghosts they stoically stand
Ignoring the bitter wind’s sting
A smile can be seen at the corners
Hearing the hollow words ring

They look to their lordings for guidance
They’re told they must find a new role
For futures are subject to forces
Far beyond their meagre control