St Mary's, Isles of Scilly.

SEASCAPE FROM A ROCK ON PORTHLOO

Turnstones, twinkletoed and intrepid, Ply the piled kelp on the strand, And fly, all as one, on a whim.

Gulls skim the sea’s dark undulations, A cormorant dives, the turnstones cry ‘Til sun turns sea mercurial,

And the shoreline is a mirror With a glazed meniscus.

There he is, the old dog-seal, Silvered in the sun, between here And the island, breasting the surge

Like an old man treading water; Only his head appears, bobbing Like a stub-nosed buoy with whiskers,

Then slips beneath, and though far off, We almost hear the slop of mercury, And the minutes tick with held breath.

The sun shifts, the sea a green glaze Crusted with foam, and he’s there again, Watching the land with a lazy gaze.

When he goes, the sea turns steely Like a battleship’s hull. A turnstone, Half washed away, struggles from a wave.

The strand, a mound of unsalvaged disjecta: A winkle, a pebble, a cormorant’s skull.

Source material: A walk on Porthloo, 13 January 2004.