The Last Jig

Solemn faced people pipe the last jig and then smoke cigarettes while down by the harbour wall hardly a breeze flusters the mirror smooth surface spreading like a silver sheet over the tired tidal flats where the remnants of birds half heartedly preen the clingy oil slick off of lowered wings and wait for the water to wash them away.
On the other side of town where someone has already scrawled swastikas on Dave's Tailor shop in case he's a Jew  and painted insults on the bus shelter opposite the chip shop because although he wouldn't work there some foreigner has taken his job, a newspaper sheet caught on wooden railings, they took the iron ones away for the Great War back before I was born, shows the latest score for the towns football club as another defeat.
Above the Town Hall the Nations Flag hangs limply against the cracked paint on its pole opposite the church with the steel grills protecting its stained glass windows that still stands at the end of the street on which my dad can only just afford to rent a two up two down spot in a stretched line of squashed houses, thanks mostly to the long hours he spends cutting the small patches of grass scattered across town like dog turd coral reefs.
When they finished their fags they slowly drifted apart, great proud hulking men in short tartan skirts that a' soon as break your jaw for looking at them strangely as they would risk everything to pull the odd soul to safety on the cold moonless night when the sea stopped smiling.
My dad looked at me funny when I said I didn't want to live here any more.