Wreck

Scummy water

tongues

the smashed-out portholes

as the anchor locker

glugs in the evening tide.

The radar is motionless, rust-riven

after years of playing voyeur

to the fissures

of Amalfi’s supple coast.

A Tory councillor said it should be moved;

that was six years back.

Now its crab-riddled belly

is heaped with plastic shrapnel.

Its owner’s in a home now,

or so it’s rumoured; lost his money

in a high court battle

with the rep to a Ponzi scheme.

Here's the souvenir of his playboy years,

a stubbled of barnacles,

the mortal gash in its side

half-concealed

by a widow’s peak of weed

which parodies the sleek sweep

of the port-side bow.