I.

Awash
A broken spiral-shell
A stream of moonlight through the imperfect aperture – the delicate intention.

The sure clutch of a seagull that turns this
in the foam of low tide. And
the sandy-wind turning out the dried-up husks of baby turtles,
once clutched surely.

II.

A fisher-man turns,
squinting from the moon to the sun.
Down through his nets are nests of old fish tales
and an old wife waiting for his return.
Ever awatch for a silver sprinkle under the wave-crest, and for
a basket of fat herring
to be thumped proudly on the table-top.

III.

A crane steps lightly on its mirror behind the sea,
fishes the land locked pocket with a spear in his beak.
An albatross,
no time for gulls or cranes and less for yearning nets, encircles.
The fisherman is for his pipe. Fishing in his pocket for a pouch of backy.

For waves.

For wind.

And for silver.

Martin Challis © 2009