Beauty

Oil on the quayside – rainbow looking glass,
cranes upside-down in technicolour, birds
come swooping up. Behind me there’s the port’s

sad bustle, somewhat tired, the former urge
long gone, and ineffective. On the bay
there’s an old tramp, uncared-for, battered, rust

an extra skin. The autumn sun outlines
the bridge and cables. She has come to roost,
not really wanted, lazy on the tide,

her decks abandoned and her crew paid off –
all her robustious lethargy aligned
with the squat town’s spent promises behind.