by Mike O’Brien

I
Crouching on his haunches,
The Sea Policeman looks into the lifeless eye of a cow
It had wandered too near the edge of the crumbling cliff above
When it fell onto the shingle It must have landed with a real thud

II
He holds the barnacle encrusted frame of a child’s bicycle
Look at his boots sinking into the watery sand
Look closer and you can see the tidemarks
Six inches above the cuffs of his trousers

III
In earnest conversation with two men next to a small fishing boat
He points to the rope that one of them is holding
The other has a pipe in his mouth
A dense mist obscures the horizon

IV
A family holiday at Scarborough
He stands awkwardly on the beach with his wife and two small children
His eyes are distant – thinking of his beat
The real seaside

V
He examines the contents of a broken wooden crate
They are scattered over the smooth pebbles
Bottles, some smashed
Some intact and containing a greyish brown fluid

VI
Notebook in hand
Licking his pencil
He towers above a couple of crying kiddies
Between them is the partially decomposed remains of a seal

VII
He is standing outside of a stone church,
His helmet under his right arm,
Surrounded by ancient gravestones
Their inscriptions worn to illegibility by the salt air

Mike O’Brien is a largely cheerful sort of a chap who enjoys writing and performing poetry. Some of his work can be found at zoomburst.substack.com. He has also dabbled in publishing other poets, who can be found at sixtyoddpoets@substack.com. Instagram @obrienfeatures.