The sea is goose-pimply-choppy-grey.
The kind of day
where amateur fisherfolk seek solace
in pubs and cafes, spooling out whoppers
and frothing down foam.
The pelicans have no choice.
There is an ant line -
trick or treating out - out
on the silvery horizon, hopeful
and hungry, no doubt
and further still,
a scrubby rind, close to waterline, lead-dark,
plate-edge of land,
ho!
Water is grimacing and complaining,
sulky patty-cake-patting,
slapping piers
with thinly disguised disgruntlement.
Seapride and Westcoaster shunt up against
each other -
you move over, no, you move
over, no you - I was here first!
Squint-eyed and restless,
ruffling grey wing and spuming white chest
feathers of struggling gulls
mimic wave-riding cloud formations.
All seems agitated
and in temper,
so when bent-up and over-chromed
puce-salmon Toyota pulls in,
too close
and pissed off occupant catapults
out - no, you shut up, no you shut
up, no you - and
you grow up, too!         I back car
cautious         out,
gently light-rev         burbling V8 up

and motor disconsolate,
home.