At Aldeburgh you have to watch your back.
The beach is chilled, the Borough vents its wrath,
And whispered, ghostly choruses proclaim
‘Grimes’, as though in agony. Tormented,
A man prepares to sink his boat. Foghorns
Sound on nearby sandbanks. Night shelters shame.
Sweet morning comes, tearing at consciences
Of perky seafarers. Go, cast your nets,
And bring home lost music, the untold tales.
Dry them, spruce them up, the opening night
Awaits and drools already at the prospect.
Tomorrow come, reluctantly, reviews,
Spray-painted with much gusto, outside Auntie’s,
While locals run from each approaching storm.