Pwllcrochan
Jetties are matchsticks, balanced into piers.
Like card houses, eventually you stack one too many.
A tanker is docking three hundred thousand tons of oil,
ribbed waves rock to shore. Chimneys are belching,
a low hum under the pylon. The air smells of engine.
Everything crackles. Even the trees.
Out of a sycamore, a squirrel plummets
with a loud crack on the tarmac.
In the bay, a single turbine
spins, dizzy with the wind.