Fishing boats lie stranded impotent in the mud,
Having been sitting proud, bobbing sensuously,
In the bustling, water filled harbour.
Trapped by forces of nature without chance of escape,
Until the tide returns again to restore their freedom.
Ropes and chains once unseen beneath the water
Lie now draped with slimy brown and green seaweeds,
Like so many stranded eels writhing in viscous mud.
Resting now in their ineffectiveness, their redundancy,
Their strength to be tested once more at high tide.
Fishermen mill around in groups, hands in pockets,
Waiting for the tide, discussing the weather,
Talking about past glories when fish were plentiful.
Others still are busy preparing for the next tide,
Mending nets, cleaning down boats, simply waiting.
Seagulls scavenge for any titbits they might find,
And people eating ice-creams, fish and chips etc.
Are prime targets for their terror tactics.
Despite all the warnings, DON'T FEED THE GULLS!
People feed them anyway, and deservedly get pecked.
Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland