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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.