St Mawes

Five tethered skiffs nod and bow,

carousel horses, tugging at salty ropes

that rise, then dip into the flotsam,

like skipping ropes twirled by lazy children.

Scornful, gulls balance on these bucking prows,

and from time to time take irritated flight

only to return to station

each bringing a grumbling squeal.

The fret flicks across the harbour

with an unheralded slap,

the sharp edge of its tongue

catching us unawares.

A windswept busker, back to harbour wall

sends flamenco notes into the maelstrom,

a box of urchin shells

like shiny painted fruits

for sale offered near his feet.

Published by grahamrsherwood