Whoever discarded that drink found it enough fizz for his flat life, but not enough responsibility to put it in the bin. The litter louts surprise me, for they change this place that should be inviolate, should be for only the birds and sea creatures to shape, prodding it with a claw here, a scale or feather there.

It needs to change, but another way, from sylphs of the air and undines of the sea prodding it with a silver finger here, a starry cloak there. Perhaps they will come and amend our coast, now that it is the time when people fear all coasts will be flooded, and they will be washed under the silt and sand.

Green crusts of weed clasp the rocks on the sand. I will remove the can from between them, so it’s just pebbles and seaweed bulbs in that space. Then it will look more like my world that I saw at the dawn of time, and will see again.


It’s more fun here when the tide is in.

Strong winds make the waves faster,

The foam like overflowing beer.

The litter picker takes the cans.

It has to be official-

You have to have the tongs,

Otherwise I would pick them up,

And maybe get infected.

A whole shift of doing that

Would be too strenuous for me,

So I won’t present myself

To be issued with tongs.

Instead I’ll sit and watch the sea.

Some rats are watching here with me,

A large one and a small one;

A mother rat and baby.

They’re just a family of creatures,

So I won’t report them

To tong-wielding officials.