Seaside town


The river meets the sea here. In a sycamore tree a small birds nest sways. Pied wagtails skip along the path between the pharmaceutical plant and the shore. A pilot boat heads out to a ship anchored beyond the lighthouse. High tide. Railway sleepers, pallets, geese flying south. Dog shit, tinsel, good morning, aye right. Voices carry, across the water, boat engines, hammers, hi viz . Children run as the school bell rings. Old men in caps, hands buried deep in their coat pockets. Out for a paper, filling a day. January. Forgotten. And a thin sun falls for a moment on a line of white washed shirts, a brattle of pegged seagulls bursting to take flight.



New year. New walk. Montrose.

Low sun over the sea, dark smudged clay clouds. In the gap between the sheds and the lighthouse curlews and oystercatchers follow a line along the shore, picking over their finds. Skin prickles, turning to face the northern arctic wind. It moans, singing along the new green, taller than me or you fence. Beyond, grain sacks strung high in the rafters swing, creaking the blackness of empty warehouse space. Outside the light becomes glassy, brilliant. A beginning.