The sea illuminated starkly
but through cloud, the sky full of water
and strongly-coloured by reflections,
because viewed at an acute angle,
else it’s opaque and matt silvery white.
A small, powered yacht crosses the harbour,
going into sea, the bay crowded.
There are several such craft -- each is drawn
quite similarly -- crewed by stickmen.
A flying gull curves repeatedly
in and out of the frame, from the south,
flash in an eye, smear upon a lens.
A boat in the bay, fly crashed on glass,
quivers. Ashore, all is full right up.
Houses predominate as always. Nothing
much has changed. One says same words over.
Yet, one can see routes, in near foreground,
for instance; many rushed figures,
each sharp, uneasily animated,
modes of Cookham resurrection,
multitudes of colourful flower heads
among them . Their faces tend to blankness
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