Spluttering tinnies in formation

flee the inevitable as the tide bites into

old volcano flank.

New tastes in the harbour’s mouth

fixed to sticky clay

the beach for hours, or even more,

slashed in polyurethane stripes

a kind of supermarket of shit,

shelved fish dropping scales.

The lino,

after two hours soaking,

shrinks, shrinks again

and a rotting breeze

rips holes in fences.

Mud covers woodsheds and kayaks;

cobwebs of silt.

Eventually from the south -

ambulance sirens,

rubber neckers and a terrible effect on incomes

Evening softens the cries,

absorbs the darkness.

The open hands of rivers, little styrene chips,

and a nimbus of oil

slide round stalk-eye crabs

somewhere between night and dawn,

as oblique to our thoughts

as the latest Korean comedy, Wall Street,

chestnut paste,

the dance steps of Kinshasa,

that grab the left foot,

vibrating it.

Days later when a tern clops across

the now liquid golf course,

tangled roofing decorating the 9^th hole,

your smile settles things,

born from a disgust so perfect,

so thorough-going and sweet,

no recounting will tell it.