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.