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for Bob Lowry

the dinghies
have been dragged
high above
the weed-mark
of full tide
their keel lines gash
the dead-grey beach

the yachts
have been bundled
in canvas and stacked
at the slipway
like mortal remains
ready to go
down through the deep

the drum
of the sea
has been muffled
and the hunched gulls
lament
motionlessly
on the sandbanks

the sun
has gone out
and the cold pale face
of the sky
is scratched
by the black fingernails
of the coming rain