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 accordion 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