Magpie

At the top
of the food chain
wearing black
with white apron
she guards
her success
with eyes
of polished jet.

Left over
from a
bygone age
the old bird
hovers
screeches orders
at the youngsters.

You can smell
the vinegar
in her hair
years of work
have left her
like the fish,
battered.

She has trawled
the seas
of visitors
for the contents
of the tourists' wallet,
face deformed
through years
of forced
politeness.

Yes
the Magpie Cafe
still serves
the best
Whitby cod
chips
and mushy peas
money can buy.