the sea is rattling bones today

and the wind holds my ears to ransom

for want of a scarf and a hat

she is walking on the promenade

and wants no part of the play

so I am talking to the man on the pier

with the rods and ask

“what’s your game?“

whiting

and if he’s lucky

bass

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the narrow stepped couched dunes,

doused in a chiffon mist that lies in wait

for the unwary winged hopper or crawling louse,

offer the way to our saline convention where

I wave at the sea

and count a full seven

before it greets me, reciprocally,

with zealous rips and a curling lip I haven’t seen before

on this blandest of the eastern boards

and it roars with ...

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