Ian Caws
Foreshoreman
Listen to the clock chewing time.
There are always such silences
When I am here
And he rarely talks of people
Only of tide and wind, the queer
Movements of fish
In the Channel. Like the stubble
On his face the world is once he’s
Wintering and he’ll knock the ash
From his pipe some
Unobtrusive way on the hearth
So the world won’t hear. He offers
Me tea that could
Sprout hair and we go on hearing
The clock chew time. Next month, some kid
Will bang his door
And tell him he’s needed clearing
The foreshore again. And the house
Will stretch its jaws... and he’ll stop the
Clock in mid-breath.
Page(s) 7
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