Facing South blowing a kiss to Tayport,

the land juts to an imagined causeway.

This Tay’s swimmable in forty minutes

like Puck putting a girdle round the Earth.
Still light on the water’s from a painting.

Still life draws white dot yachts in the distance.

Just bought ice cream cones go with the view,

complementing like good wine in theory.
The old castle doesn’t have a king now

and ghosts from submarines to racehorses

still lucky after all these years abide

with family smiles in this haven.
In the lee of the harbour wall white swans

glide imperious and impervious,

towards a fading red phone box shore.

Next door’s the beach all children walked on once.
The other way the lifeboat’s slipway poised,

guarding the peace of the silver river

while a pint of foaming ale beckons thirst

and decisions decisions decisions.