ON THE grass bank on Barry Harbour

Are resurrected flowers: yellow, white, violet.

The sun creates a transient silvery sea path

Where the forlorn boat-wrecks bobble

Surrounded by water but going nowhere.

Waves crash half-heartedly against the stony shore

As black ominous clouds begin to glide

Dark as the pebbles from the ebbing tide.

Seagulls screech and skim the water

People like ants on the harbour wall

The wheel of the Pleasure Park

Not turning early this Saturday.

A colossal vessel drifts in the Channel

As the face of the sun is obscured

The silver stream now turned back to grey

As I sit on a bench watching the bay.

Guy Fletcher