Treasure Hunting with my Camera
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Walking round the town of Dunbar I find:
serpents with forked tails and green scales that flicker tongues at my ankles.
Toys breaking out, searching for adventure elsewhere,
in Focabers? Pitlochry? Or Preston Pans?
Or maybe stowing away to County Donegal?
God Pan, companion of nymphs, turned to stone
by spangley mermaids with jewels for nipples,
as a gannet stares blind at the sky, with the bluest lined-eye.
Rusty locks guard empty houses with handles of crystal that sparkle
while sightless windows blank stare towards the shore
at a praying woman, head bowed, who kneels by the sea
Or does she?
Blue doors rust and flake, battered by the wind
beside shocking pink doors in mellow red sandstone.
There is serendipity in this town of writers
and sea farers
There is a treasure trove here for lovers
of the extraordinary.