My feet are shuffling over dusky beaches,
Somewhere between the brick and shore,
Shale is dashed gently on the yielding sand,
That form dry haloes where I tread.

I've left a trail of them.

Stabbing the sand as I've gone, heel-first,
Gouging deep and down.
And I'm looking through the lens of the clouds on the horizon and I see you.

I'm treading on the slimed floor of the fish market,
I think this used to be a chapel.
The roof is high, with crossbeams
Where pigeons shed guano as the sunset blasts shadows against the wall.
The heads of cod roll madly,
And cleavers flash.

The smell of the market is one of rot and brine,
And hope. And money.
Fragments of cork scatter the black stone -
Did you know this city was built from sea-stone?

Stonetown, touching on grace and stroking the sea,
Connected to the world with a causeway of dreams,
And cheap postcards from stalls.