Wind across the quay-side 
Grit in my eyes and fish in my nose 
White as whalebone, wheeling seagulls cry
 
Outside the bar in the high street 
Blind fingers spin an accordion reel 
Shoes and sedan wheels grudgingly keeping time 

Fishing boat stretched out at low tide 
Dog and a black man work on the deck 
Bright as a bottle, sunlight skips wave to wave
 
Part of a map of somewhere 
Teases my foot like a haunting dream 
Never so free, I'm lost in the seagulls' flight