soldiers in night-grey waves run
mud-flats at the bobbing buoy.
From the screen
of racing clouds deploy
wings, the vanguard of the Sun.
The night must
yield, and across the bay
lighthouse, scanning sea and strand,
lick the deckchairs, the sand,
yelps, ducking in the spray.
At the fishery,
dogs prick their ears,
clasps an aching knee and squats.
moorings rock the skiffs and yachts.
rehearsed for us a billion years
ocean rolled: same tar drenched
vendor trundling to this stand,
raindrops puncturing the sand,
clank of grey commuter trains.
couple waits to see the day
And braves the
nippy air. In massive hordes,
the surf and stretch towards
The unborn Sun
colossal shapes of grey.
© - 4/01/2003
- by michael sympson, all rights