Houseboats herd the flat troughs
of the Ditton's marina piers;
People embarking, disembarking,
gingerly cross the mini-chasm,
a sword's-width of spinach coloured water.
Preferring waterhouse to landhouse, and
because of the slow lar-star tilt.
It dislodges the locked silver ball
inside the mind, rolling it free
to make lights flash, the bumpers twitch
like the clenched skin of a horse's flank
and paddles sweep their tiny arcs.