wind across the quay-side
grit in my eyes and fish in my nose
white as whalebone, wheeling seagulls cry

outside the bar in the high-street
blind fingers spin an accordeon reel
shoes and sedan wheels grudgingly keeping time

fishing boat stretched out at low tide
dog and a black man work on the deck
bright as a bottle, sunlight skips wave to wave

part of a map of somewhere
teases my foot like a haunting dream
never so free, i'm lost in the seagulls' flight