'I walk where sea-dogs run'

I walk where sea-dogs run,
spray-booted on the long winter sand,
eager as seagulls,
jumping for fictional minnows,
and snapping at the blanketed sun.
Old men cough sea-salt
and click their fingers in time
with jogging men who weep
at strange, sad footprints.
Steel factories, a sky away,
greyly suck the hanging clouds
and stunt the mountain’s green
and loveless boughs above the bay.
And with narrow seaweed eyes,
I cast wet words
in the hope of catching bigger fish.
But forever on this clammy sand,
my small words die.