Wet Morning on Mull Pier

Rain pitters in the pat.
There’ll be no seaweed
lifted. Fishboxes float.
Gloominess resisted.
Sky moans grinned away by
details of our task: tie
the tinny roof down flat.
Stray bulbous bladderwrack
wasting on the high sand,
unknown wooden items, tat,
crumbling pier, fraying ropes,
lost oil cans circling floats,
all weather’s toys; and men,
kagools of corny craic.

Seth Crook

If you have any comments on this poem,  Seth Crook  would be pleased to hear from you.