Although I can smell the mudlarking lads
and bitesize sun-dried translucent crabs
of youth on estuary sal(u)ted breeze,

the crude cracker-bruised welkin of ages
surely scours with droplets less than seven
these deserted streets sown by a stolen sea.

And once fed of plants and termini,
then failed crop of upline industry:
a wreck pronounced by a split youth

a corpse retiring, yielding blue.

– to be continued –