Round here fisherman don’t have much to do
with fishing. All things equal and new,
as April takes tern from marsh to shingle,
as what ebbs crowfoot to canalside wrinkle,
we’re gunning towpaths toward cinquefoil yellow,
chipping-it in drainpipes and Scott’s Cinquecento.
Cattle baulk the backfields; staid masonic chunks
crumbling to sheep sheered and shining. Sunned
the car throttles, floundering heifer into heather.
Our pikey-spoiler thugging the obelisk of a wether.
We park. I camber a smug arcade. Dune slopes.
A figure lugs the dark. Sands caulked to old rope.