THE sand is a damp, dirty blond

Where seagulls gather as if at a meeting

And a lone figure and her faithful hound

Stroll by the curved end of the grey harbour wall.

The soft late October breeze

Does not chill my bones but refreshes me

As I hear the gentle snore of the sea.

A tanker drifts across, a contrast

To the sad wrecks marooned on the sand

Whose only crew are seagulls.

The sun appears, painting silver

Into the estuary meandering to the Channel

But I’m content to ruminate and stray

To the water’s edge on this autumn day.

Guy Fletcher

Pantmawr

Cardiff