.
As I walk out on Saturday,
on Saturday and late,
the clouds are monstrous birds of prey,
the wind is holy hate.
The gale that roars in from the sea
grows darker with the night.
A savage tide is fighting free
from Topsham to the Bight.
When I walk out on Sunday though
all other is the story.
The clouds are doves with breasts of snow.
The sun climbs high in glory.
The breeze is dreaming and the tide
drinks from the morning's light.
The Exe sleeps gentle as a bride
from Topsham to the Bight.
(Valparaiso)
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