Here they make lobsterpots garish;
yellow, purple, dayglow green
dumped on the pier in a ragamuffin heap
with buoys bright orange at the end of a rope
and a seagull rises, plaintive away
on a silvery wind, the tang of the sea
and a wolf whistle calls a dog back to heel
in a pull from a master, pull from a man.
In brine, these colours are nonsense
but smelling the bait, to gobble and grow,
spikey and spiney I’ll butt in your cage man
and sail to your surface – a world I don’t know
and swing like a clapperless bell,
tentacles turning, waving and heavy and drowning.