Dark sickle against waves. Masked.
Stiff; a salt-swift cutting
the wet air and turning on sharp wing points
you show white.
Turning and turning alternating light
and dark
in the changing sea-shape of your own grey water-world.
I caught you once – in the night
on Hirta Island;
gloved against your fish bone cutting bite,
your legs too far back for land use,
for once you are vulnerable
to earth-bound. . .