 |
 |
| We walk out to sea along |
| the North pier's splintered wood |
| wintered some hundred years |
| with see-through planks |
| where once old holidays stood |
| in the cold sweep of the surf. |
| On the windy edge a fisherman's |
| line anchors the bay |
| while back some way |
| the unhuried tower announces |
| itself, beckons two strangers |
| north of their days |
| fishing for stowaway voices |
| in the thin May crowd. |