Tuesday Poem – From the kitchen
I watch great gulls,
beaks curved like peeling knives,
pull mussels off the rocks
and drop them from a hover above the road.
The meat inside must be worth the work,
scraps of lunch surely remain unguarded
at the Fisherman’s Table.
In the harbour a looming ferry
tilts yachts in its wake.
While a loamy garden’s succulents