The eastern harbour. The lighthouse that fellthe stones configured now to a citadel -
the guide’s laconic. Meanwhile, some of the city
has been clawed by the sea into its depths
cobblestone streets gobbled, the warp and weft
of grand architectures of peace and probity.
There’s nothing remotely romantic abouta lighthouse, the strongest beam shines out
not as golden hope, bloody fancy metaphors!
just a plain warning, turn away, keep off,
keep off the grass, the rock, this shore, don’t stop.
The moth and flame in vaguely shocking reverse.
The bunched weight of history easily slipslike a tote-strap off shoulders, no way to grip
it simply. Teenage kids high-five on the pavement.
A black and yellow waspish cab in cruise mode
rubs up slow against the kerb. The waves erode
the rough shoreline till the backwash is spent.