At Runswick Bay

I

Here I am sitting by the sea, at last, seagulls doing
Perpetual seagull things, by my side, a small tray
On which a coffee, with milk, an apricot flapjack.

I can tell you, since I've just driven it, that it's eighty
Three point six miles from Leeds, the route I took. Down below,
I see a grandfather, carrying in his right hand

A small square bright red plastic bucket, and a green net. His
Granddaughter climbs down from the groyne
To see something small, mysterious, I can't make out

From here. Gulls still shouting at each other, small swift birds in
Numbers probably martins make low level runs between
The rescue boat house, the seaside café outside which

I sit by the sea, a lone fighter making high, straight runs
Through the muffled atmosphere. Mist has drawn a wide
Circle at whose centre a man with tray, flapjack, cup,
...