Harbour Height 1st edit

[carl griffin]

Hug   (version 2)
 
Moulting 300ft in the air, I sniff out
sea brine, mollusc dust, sprinkled into —
 
and crashing against— the whisky glass.
Lit by candles on the restaurant tables 
 
and lights already reflecting
on the harbour water, I zone in on the marina
 
decked out in miniature, people
across the swing bridge before amber
 
warnings flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out eye colour, hairstyles,
 
bone structure this high, just purpose
in their walk, passing blurred berths
 
of tugboats that look like interlocking
plastic building-blocks. Wind-whipped
 
walkways should entail railings.
One person pauses, sensing he is
 
being watched, or smelling the mollusc
dust in my drink. Joining my table.
 

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This was the first version:

Harbour Height



Through another window, the maritime
marina is decked out in miniature

where people hurry across the swing
bridge in ones or twos before amber

warning-lights flash in the half-dark.
I can’t make out faces this high

just the purpose in their walk
passing blurred berths of tugboats

that look like interlocking plastic
building-blocks, as if wind-beaten

walkways hereabout don’t lack railings.
Except one guy, who has stopped

or merely paused, and shakes my hand
seeing me watching from the 27th floor.