Sidney Wharf

Thieving in mid-flight, the gulls

Rob each other of dangling crab-guts,

Tossed from the long wharf.


Lines of yellow chord

Curve into the dark water,

To the baited traps below.


The crabbers get no clue,

No sign a crab is feasting down there,

Oblivious to his capture, until


He is hauled aloft for a look-see.

The crabber stifles a curse or a sigh…

Another too-small one is tossed back.


The gulls still circle, like dogs about a table,

Who wait for a vagrant scrap, dropped

With a secret smile,  by a bored boy.

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