On the headland wind and the wide sea,
as above: boat distant, gulls, sky,
beaded spray on the leaves of the grass,
at my feet its wild stitchery.
And these old graves, stones
wind has scribbled the names from:
Messrs Grimgrind and Whingeon
still bleating their unpaid accounts.
Thereafter the relatives.
They moan like the North Sea wind,
generations that shoulder complaint
on and on in the grey sea weather.
But the battery’s flat at last
in the plastic parrot by the amusements,
and the bingo caller’s throat’s been cut
at the pier’s end. At long last.