You stand where the salt air bites deep
While the rest of the harbor will sleep
Your boots are all worn through the sole
You play a forgotten old role
The ferry dock rots in the gray
No boat comes to carry the day
The iron is turning to red
Like a story that's already read
Oh keep the gold beam turning slow
Where the cold North Atlantic winds blow
You fight with the rust and the brine
Crossing a thin silver line
The coffee is bitter and black
There is no one to call the way back
You polish the glass with a rag
While the spirit begins to sag
Oh keep the gold beam turning slow
Where the cold North Atlantic winds blow
You fight with the rust and the brine
Crossing a thin silver line
The tide pulls the shingle away
The fog turns the morning to gray
You hold to the wheel in the gale
Until the old machinery fail
You watch for a sail on the rim
Where the line of the horizon is slim
The oil in the lamp is run low
But you give it one more steady glow
A taxi man knows how it feels
The spinning of heavy iron wheels
Waiting for fares that never appear
Holding the ghost of a long year
Oh keep the gold beam turning slow
Where the cold North Atlantic winds blow
You fight with the rust and the brine
Crossing a thin silver line
The dawn breaks the blue of the bay
You sweep the last salt spray away
Just you and the rusting light
