The door is broken! The door is broken.
A Polar wind squalls and flings it open.
The bloke behind the fish fryer with a rag
thrown over his shoulder tells me to leave it;
wipe-clean menus skid across the floor.
I’m always somewhere like this in winter.
Trawlers queued at the Wyre light for an open
berth before the Cod Wars. This place is broken.
A Romany woman shouts; the door again.
Men fishing, rummage in carrier bags for ragworm;
an uprooted tree waits in the rising flotsam
for high tide and a slow descent to the ocean floor.
