Flecks of pepper on foam
Were their ships
To the distant watchtower.

Children bawling,
Goats bleating amidst
Their own dung,
Could not be heard
Over the waves.

As they came on
In their fractal thousands,
There were mutters
Among the garrison:

Sun-glint on bronze
Might be shovels
Or hidden swords.

In their aimlessness
Might lie purpose.
The sharpness of their prows
Cannot be denied.

Safer by far to raise alarums,
Beat to quarters,
Draw chains across the harbor.

Safer to turn them away
To skim the coast,
Graze hulls against
Salt-ravaged boulders, until

They should find some island
With no flag flying,
Not pressed by any claim
Of man
Whose exclusionary artistry
Is the jewel of the world.