Westcliff Jetty

 Kent, in the long distance, rolls up and away

White turbines caught by still bright evening sun 

Tumbling round, powered on the estuary wind

Black headed gulls wheel and caw

They float above a patch of mud and sea-slick weed

Then pull out a warning orange pair of legs

And drop gracelessly down, readjusting on the earthward sludge

They take to picking along the shore

Heads bowed to the wind

Hunting from east to west in the shining wet shingle

There’s not much here for them

Or so it seems

When the bin behind the café whips open 

And spreads itself out over the speckled red pavement

And the ripped black bags on the road above

Tumble about in the estuary wind

But this is what they’ve always done

Ruffled but undisturbed