Tilt poem

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.