The morning lay like a grey cloth
discarded by dirty hands;
The grey-blue mass of the ocean
broke into surf on our toes;
The whelk-reek of glistening rocks
closed the sides of the world in.
The dogs sulked in the heaviness;
Waves salmon-leaped up the cliff;
A boat cut through the crested swells
pulsing, beating, to the shore;
The fisherman’s shouts brought baskers
bare-footed to the tideline.
Spoiling in the oppressive heat,
swimming seagulls' frenzied air,
silver bellies, black stripes, grooved
fins,
deep-forked tails, green-blue dapple,
gleamed mackerel iridescence.
They school now through memory’s tide.
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