Two streets down and the land
turned to sand.
Crabs baked, shell up, in the midday heat.
Beside them lay the shell of a boat,
Its bones warped and withered and sheltering
Panting mongrels in its cavernous belly.
Local kids run catching crabs or shells or
Whatever they find that doesn't run too far.
A schoolhouse, smaller than a cottage, with brightly painted
pictures of the sea.
Blue to ward off evil, blue like the sky. Tiles dot the
whitewashed walls,
In memory of the work.
Fishermen, old now, sit by the strand watching strangers;
tourists.
They buy old shells, and sea sculptures of wood.
Shaking their heads they see our purses emptying,
This is the business now, the sale of rubbish and glitter to the
invaders.
Before, this town was empty, it was busy, everyone knew the same,
Everything was the same.
Now, invaders come half the year, then the rest is still, and
poor again.
Like the boat, occupied in the sun, then left to go on rotting on
its side.