Five tethered gigs nod and bow,
carousel horses, tugging at their salty ropes
that rise, then dip into the flotsam,
like skipping ropes twirled by lazy children.
Scornful, gulls balance on these bucking prows,
and from time to time take irritated flight
only to return to station
each bringing a grumbling squeal.
The fret flicks across the harbour
with an unheralded slap,
the sharp edge of its tongue
catching us unawares.
A windswept busker, back to harbour wall
sends flamenco notes into the maelstrom,
a box of urchin shells
like shiny painted fruits
for sale offered near his feet.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2012
