Disguised by the savageness of age,
half hidden by seaweed’s creeping fingers,
there is evidence of industry.
Vessels tired from embattling seas
were held fast here;
to slumber before wading out once more
into untidy, unforgiving, seas.
Well fed gulls quawked their chaotic chorus
as fish guts littered the shingles
and pungent incense rose to meet them.
Men and women with leathered faces,
tough as winter storms,
in the dark and distant days.
Now, a few men scavenge for bait
in the mud encrusted estuary,
shadowed by hungry gulls
and the haunting echoes
of long forgotten seafolk
valid as mermaids.