Southwold Sunset Poem by Bob Dellar

Sizewell`s exploded, you said
as the dying sun
grows immense in your eyes,
and gulls collide
in the bloodshot sky.

We chance our arm and walk
harbour jetties with their
treacherous-green patina,
to ogle yachts

as rigging blocks gently toll,
and masts like giant batons conduct
the three beat measure
of an incoming tide.

Autumn can still taste summer,
so we go al fresco
at the Harbour Inn,

where a waiter with blackheads
like Braille forgets my sparkling water,
and two fishermen with brackish blood
and wind-peeled faces clink

glasses with a weekend sailor,
who boasts of his Fairline
and his ripe-young wife,
but would scupper them both
for their sea-soaked life.