The terns and gulls are circling
gulping the river-mouth air.
They come in, drunk with hunger
to settle among the silver river waves,
pilfering the tiny life, water pearls
flicked to sun and sea.
The huts here are faded yellow
and candy-cane green.
They are anchored in the sand,
salted windows to the east;
holiday homes with simple shelves
and memories locked in cupboards
They rise early or at noon;
men in gumboots and shorts.
They taste the light and the air,
look east and west.
They will do something or nothing.
It is that sort of day