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



(Sheffield, Eng. -- 6/7/73)