Filthtide

A fine timepiece weak but striking, wound once then broken

Tidecolour turf, waves white-frosted with piss-frothed tips

Colour of bromides, luring currents, more lurid worlds free from purity

Puréed dirt from ablution pipes swirls in brown aristocracy

Rotten mists nip, biting acidine at sail sheets

Persisting disturbed cerecloth smell circles

Grips passing ships like a siren’s quipped ditty, the unwilling resist

Eats into clinkered flanks like French cannon at advantage, failed advances

Smog’s reducing digits leave imprints

Crust like rust a body would produce, could it.

A stuck hempen hawser drawn around a breaching stack of wet stone

Above seafoam crown alone rose damp weed robed

Efforts measureless of Herculean seashells living perilous

Periwinkles clung tight, seashells hard as shields and tight

To marks like intemperate footballers

Never reaching footfall’s place.

Any longer and she’ll cause flooding, Cap’n

Shan’t be rushed, correcting cap considers action’s applicable course

His man reports, timbers shimmer with stowaway brine

Miles yet due West before any meaningful stretch

Of tenable headland invests their investments with hopes of success

Betwixt, fierce waves and bravery-testing mettles for vessels to breast

Worse yet can and will come now it has been uttered; so it is done

Let it be done, they cannot risk so early flooding

Many hawsers such can be sought in the swineheld pearl of London

Cap Cut it.

Alchemisland