Saw him in Fore Street,
talking to himself:
at least, it looked that way;
no crowd to speak of.
Just the old dear
not right in the head,
gulls on the scrounge,
the usual crowd
on route to market.
Telling of God, he were,
how He loves us all;
though no one was there.
Maybe they’d worked it out already.
Later, I spied him down by the quay,
staring out at the bay.
He was having a bite,
job done for the day,
I figured.
I’m not superstitious, mind,
but the mist had cleared.
What’s more,
I couldn’t help note,
sunlight was falling straight
on his sandwich.
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