The contrary wind
toboggans through my coat hood
and dries the old man’s face.
The fishmonger grins
his teeth scarred
like the surface of the seabed.
Babble and murmur
strobe in and out of my hearing.
The fishmonger twinkles
his ageing, fish scale eyes
and like water
raked over the shingle,
his salty breath carries
seaweed words
into my shallow, rock-pool mind.
Clueless and surprised,
my mother's purchase
mouths a silent gasp for oxygen.
Soupspoon reflections
in a silver eye,
distorted and obscene.
I see myself,
I'm trapped inside
a tiny submarine.
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