Extract from

Under Milk Wood

Dylan Thomas

Herring gulls heckling down to the harbour where the fishermen 

spit and prop the morning up and eye the fishy sea smooth to the 

sea's end as it lulls in blue. Green and gold money, tobacco, tinned 

salmon, hats with feathers, pots of fish-paste, warmth for the 

winter-to-be, weave and leap in it rich and slippery in the flash and 

shapes of fishes through the cold sea-streets. But with blue lazy 

eyes the fishermen gaze at that milkmaid whispering water with no 

ruck or ripple as though it blew great guns and serpents and 

typhooned the town.

-o0o-