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
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