Early morning—Southport

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Clouds grow fingers,
thin, with no dimension,
like white seaweed pasted on light cardboard.
Their shadow drifts like skin
across the oil-stained jetty.

The sun is no colour above the no colour sea;
A breeze cracks the breakwater till it humps and swells.
Far out a trawler bucks its ease; the glare trembles.
The air is head-full of smells
of dried worms, brittle prawns—
A fish with no flesh sleeps openly on the concrete steps.

Early morning wrecks itself on day—
A studied, casting figure becomes two or three;
Dogs and children play in the furious sand
while eggs and bacon mothers, florals skittering like sails
blow helplessly toward the crouched sea.

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