A Port Calls

The town here has its back to the sea.
Giant red-brick walls rise as ramparts,
yet the cliffs nearby are crumbling clay.
A walkway darts at angles.
Seamen walk here, and hookers,
and those whose joy is swell and salt.
Along the quay stood the arcade.
Its shiny machines had steel balls
that danced and clanged
and all for a penny.
The business names on the walls
have faded; so too the businesses.
Port towns have their own charms,
and it is nothing to do with commerce.