Easington sea is cold
and wires stick up from its beach.
People gather coal in great sacks
onto bikes or into barrows.
Afternoon, and the sun
does not venture near the beach.
They stare at you,
suspicion rankling in faces.
The suck of the waves,
the seep of the sand,
the hostile snap of the wind
send their chill through you.
Old men in caps
think you’re from the social security,
and there are boys,
actually fishing, stood along the murky shore.
Black waterfalls tipped in the sea.
Our hired car, new, alien in
the D.H. Lawrence mining town
street of closed shops,
sullen air sinking down over us
and you there analytic in the distance
with your camera.