Wight Seascoop


A suspiration. Weak tide hissing
in the shingle. Black-capped gulls
alert, keeping their feet dry
where the Yar commingles with the salt.

Reminiscent of cinder pathways
after a shower. Plimsolls crunching
past the up-ended trike. Laughable
(almost) how The Solent yields

scallops, crabs by the ton and the odd
lobster. The fishermen half-pissed
at the backside of The Bugle rehearsing
all the old ones: Needles don't thread,

Cowes you can't milk and Newport
that will never age -- undrinkable.
Of a never-ending afternoon
the local historian takes notes

and, after perhaps two hours of this,
wanders by some circuitous route
to the solace of bed. The estuary
yawns, the mild sea sighs

and The Solent breeds young mussels.




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