by Andrew Taylor
Stone walls revealed by budding trees,
in need of pointing.
There should be more of it
Right at the mountains, left at the sea.
Arranged pebbles at dusk,
Timbers decaying on the shore.
Into complete darkness with just the hum.
Boats yarded, propped. Chimneys smoke,
days of mines.
Have you paid and displayed your ticket?
Gulls inland on a whim. 1991 Rugby
World Cup Whiskey bought in the square,
rests on the sill. Battlements gape, not yet lit.
Trackside foliage, garden centre like,
picking out the early evening sky.
Yards squared white washed,
Furniture waits for summer, stacked.
Green at the end of the pier.
Tide rolls back on pebbles.
No Parking. Keep Clear.