Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue James K. Baxter, Uncollected Poems Rod Mengham, Last Exit for the Revolution Stav Poleg, The Citadel of the Mind Jena Schmitt, Resting Places: The Writing-Life F Friederike Mayrocker Wayne Hill, Poems
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 275
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 183, Volume 35 Number 1, September - October 2008.

At Runswick Bay D.J. Andrew

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,
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image