Heritage Market
Cruising cars'
gaping boots deal
death warrants
to flipside washing machines.
We don't scavenge, for lack of tools
and later forget.
We cruise, ears still ringing
with market. Microphone voices
haggle single-handed
from two hundred to eighteen,
peddling wealth, mystery,
pork joints, tableware,
pirates. Through grey-white mud
we pass silent bulldogs, disused metal.
Windswept eyes dream a fortress
of deep blue containers stacked idle.
We skirt tackles, cast slanted
to await long rusted ships.
One wooden hulk tumbles
into dusk. The far bank weans,
colours first, depth later.
At last, cormorants unleash
silt stained sea smell.