Like a gaggle of bag-ladies,
slow yellow-grey rainclouds
stagger inland and,
as if they can'tholditanylonger,
lift up their skirts
and piss all over the prom.
The stench of seaweed
on the accompanying breeze
batters my nostrils
like disinfectant
in an old folks' home.
Bedraggled grockles
shelter by NO PICNIC signs
and pray for mercy:
but Mercy has Bank Holidays off,
and Vengeance is the one on call.
Wild Bill Balding
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harwich-for-the-continent/
