Dawn unwraps the town –
Dun-grey, slate-grey, pale oyster-light;
In the air, like a veil, fine rain.
Mussels and whelks tick
As the tide turns around;
They must weather out the tender time
When the wrack hangs on the harbour stair,
When the nets are picked over.
It’s vertiginous down to the bilge and plastic bottles
Scumming the sluices; clam-cold
The planks are stacked like bones.
A saw screeches in the repair sheds,
Paint and turpentine and ooze salt
Everywhere here under the fog’s tarpaulin.
You can hardly see beyond your hand,
Not even the promontory light
Nor the lifeboat station.
...