from Waterslain

FURRINER

That rumpus on the staithe,
all that flap and hoisting as
the black tide rises;
those reunions at the Moorings;
coronas of light in the quiet houseboats:

you
may call it artificial,
this summer respiration.

Be reasonable, darling!
The place choked on its own silt.

On the rocks, was it?

Every month another
shell for the wind to moan in.

What is unnatural
is this shoal of shiny Midlanders,
traipsing and sinal.
...