Out off the coast of Semaphore There’s not a seagull in sight... Black clouds tower in the wind and the rain and it looks like a dirty night The Star of Greece, she got her harbour clearance with a load of grain for home The wind is tugging at the rigging, there’s a low and a broken moan Sailors arrive at their cross roads too Lines on a chart, etched in blue Stern to the wind, run with the sea There’s thunder across the reef A run of ragged cliffs from Kingston to the Fleurieu Working the wind north-west There was almost an inch of rain that night, green rolling over the deck 17 hands on the Star of Greece in the cold and the dark and the rain And all but six or seven of them won’t make land again Twenty miles off course that night, driven too close to the beach Home is the sailor, home from the sea, There’s thunder across the reef Evening falls and a soft breeze brushes Port Willunga bay And the rising moon is a silver disc sliding up through the haze You can hear those sailors in the mizzen screaming above the wind Just outside the holding ground, on the dark side of the green