Men and engines grunting and hauling,
The nets dripping, the folds falling;
The spring-ropes jerking to the winches’ creaking
Wind in by fathoms from their sea-deep seeking,
Steady and long like a preacher speaking.
But the flow of the net we must all lay hold on,
The cork-strung back-rope our hands are cold on.

From The Alban Goes Out: 1939 by Naomi Mitchison via The Scottish Poetry Library