The Harbour Ladder

At low tide the harbour ladder shows its seven rusted rungs. A rope hangs stiff with salt beside the lowest one. The man who paints the fishing boats comes down with a bucket and brush. He tests each foothold with his heel; the water ticks against the wall. Above him, someone drops a coin. It strikes the coping, turns, then vanishes into the green. He watches where it went. A crab unfolds beneath his boot, withdraws into a joint of stone. He shifts his weight to let it pass and starts to paint the waterline. All morning, red drips from his brush. The rising harbour takes them, one by one, before they settle on the weed below. At noon he climbs. The lowest rung is gone, the next already blurred. He sits and eats an orange, letting the peel fall into his palm.