A bollard waits for a ship that will never come in, the wood is eroded, squeezed into a Victorian fashion, a wasp-waist. Weather-scraped, fissured, it flexes the muscles of the original tree. I think of the woodmen who felled it and the waggoners who hauled it here to this small port of small employments, sheds, outbuildings, decrepit before they were built but places of work in a place of half-remembered industries, faded with the lettering of firms that disappeared a century ago. Living here, perhaps I’d feel time making my choices for me: to paint a life with blue of sea and sky, to unload the dream of a harbour from the quay and carry it home
and leave behind the sacks of meal, the nails and netting, the coal and the cattle feed, the greys and browns of unremembered, unremarkable routines and daily drabnesses. Local things.