Yesterday, blue Soldier Crabs massed.
Today, a couple of Ghost Crabs skitter
away, so well camouflaged as to be
almost porous. If they had kept still . . .
Sea tang mixes with the odour of kelp
two beaches to ourselves, a bonus.
The thin strand in front of Old Man’s Hat
has been scoured leaving boulders.
New dune wall, boulders in distance
The retreating tide
abandons two skeletons.
Suffocated from black water
after the cyclone?
One head wears scales hard
enough to turn the sea black.
Bones are durable, we forget
how soft words really are.
A squad of silver angels fly
towards me, a couple about
to pass directly overhead, veer
as if my head will explode.
Pink and red legs are tucked into
their white bellies, underwings
ease cloud grey to black tips.
Common enough to almost be ignored.
No major erosion from the surges
but turbid Millba darkens the ocean.
A fire helicopter brings noise, takes me
away from the hole where an eye swivelled.
Foam sparkles through the kelp.
The ocean is manoeuvring to rise,
our oldest home struggles with acid,
heat, pollution and dead zones.
Sentences are spilling
through the village.
Where does poetry belong?
Past any apologies?
Every being deserves the chance
to grow old, few can take it.
We hope to live a happy life
before being food for others.
