Beneath the mist‑swept glow of a tidal town,
the river’s silver ribbon hums a quiet verse,
and somewhere beneath its calm, a shape lurches—
a massive maw, a jaw that catches every breath.

It is not the gentle click of gulls or the clicktock of clock‑towers,
but the low, swirling rush of a great white,
a hero in a fish‑scale armour, in the language of terror.

The sea is its street, the tide its pulse,
and the power of its gnash is the bullet‑stiff sound
that cuts across the brochures of all seaside chapels—
the theme that rattles the wire of the heart.

Such jaws do not merely open, they devour the nights,
swallow the light from a bus‑stop lantern,
so the British families, Dr. J, things kept warm,
find their courage seeking an ancient rope‑rope:

“Only the young, the brave, the bold, a decent person
can keep their wits afloat when the green‑fibre tooth roars up.”

The jaws are a spine‑shuddering hum under the eaves,
the oscitative echo of a film reel—
all the time an alarm sits on the Atlantic shelving
signalling that hope is a kind of lullaby;

because when the whale‑like terror hauls the harbour door shut,
you can hear a testimony, an atone:
The water is our medium; the shark is the fulcrum;

it sings in an unfathomable theme, a hint of panic and humour.
The sea is bursting with odour, pain, and fishy ink,
the taste of fear lies — British, it is hummed down into sugar sweet.

At the dip of the tide the deafening crystal —
and the great jaws swelling, meaning to do a thing:
to be a flash, a harry…

so we watch the next sunrise with a different mindset,

P.S. Where the sea meet the South*ends near,

we say “that beautiful thing you called “Jaws”  is the most original of delight, partly frankly 

(British words: colour, organise, programme, theatre, chemist, fake, fellow, favourite, lorry, flavour)