|
Bill Herbert
|
The boats bunch in the Gut,
the wood-walled harbour underneath
my window, and I read
the letters PHAETON LOC
painted white where one used to be tied,
as though commanding that tired charioteer.
And sometimes the sunlight seems
to pause, gazing on the scrim
of timber, reeds, stained polystyrene.
Fishermen must rely upon
one-sided arguments with
their God and governments.
Diesel like his dissolving covenant
leaks out into the estuary.
The boats digest the sea
and leave the scraped-out rims
of plaice and cod sticking to the roads
like the soles from legionaries' boots.