for my dad


the harbour shivers
in February’s frosted morning.
pewter skies are washed
in dirty watercolour.
the watery slosh of the swell
smacks against the bricks,
tearing at the weakest
to tumble
into its mild murkiness.
a sea breeze breaks
at mid-morning,
hurling crisp packets
and dried seaweed
over the heads of the dog-walkers.
this is the fury of Aeolus,
but winter warriors
zip up their anoraks,
stuff their feet
into thick socks and waterproof boots.
Thor will spill no wrath today,
as grey skies
cascade into grey seas,
boats and buoys jangle,
and fishermen roar.

8 thoughts on “for my dad

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