Song

Whatever it is
turning over below us
in the dark, the pier shakes
and some stones are bloodshot.

Whatever we might find
where the sea ignites
and the hotels stand, gulls stalk the tide break
and the concrete strip,
with its tea shops and chips.

And wherever we end up,
in the noise of sifted manuscripts,
books emptied like boxes of sand,
the streetlights hang
like bells along the seafront
and the silver tinkles
in the dark arcade’s rocked machines.