A sudden gust whirls the gulls
A boy at school told me he had
Made a gull explode with mustard
It is not unfeasible one supposes;
An angler gangles his beachmaster
Flinging five ounces of lead a hundred
And twenty yards to the bass beyond
The third wave snaps back the ratchet
And waits for his squid and ragworm
Cocktail to seduce a silver siren
I walk on past the closed café
Towards the burnt pier where
Young people are having it off
In the shelter of the twisted
Ironwork i hope they are
Being careful
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