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. . .