waves rolling the height of Smeaton’s Pier
but far far out on a low tide turning
back slicing
the knife edge white
a glittering flatness grey
a wet sand equilateral triangle
over the harbour floor ‘--
a small pick up splashes
from Pier to Wharf
along one line of the shiny figure
silent from here
the town’s tranquil,
none of the trees tall
or, being tiered,
not bending greatly
sun crystalline echoes
of its light, warmth blown away;
highlighted darkness over Porthrepta
and sea-turbulence of great magnitude
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