at St. Ives
There was this chap in a line of chaps,
facing the open sea. Cherubic. Squat.
Mr. Toad in cap and jeans. He'd spent his life
on boats, or so we guessed — mackerel, haddock,
sole. Brows salt-crusted. Ruddy-cheeked.
A man who enjoyed a home-cooked meal.
Cock-a-Leekie. Bubble & Squeak. Who knew
his Sunday roast, pints of good brown beer.
A man who'd've gone unnoticed, one in a flock
of Herring gulls speckling a low-tide beach.
Until—voice competing, almost losing
to wind and surf—Bonxie! Bonxie moving
left to right! (a rare bird lifting into view).
If you have any comments on this poem, Martha Silano would be pleased to hear from you.