Litter of the Littoral

Sea Lace, a thick spaghetti of elongating line,
  is floating by: with a base pebble (smooth pink granite)
still attached by the gang-glue of the tiny holdfasts:
  a forest dragging its own home island out to sea.

Examining this passing pseudo-land, pausing in
  my daily swim through the shallows, eventually
unmoving, staring in a bay naturalist's task, 
 with an upper torso and hands above the surface,

I'm a Gormley statue of King Poseidon. Until,
  stopped too long, a tidying crab examines my toe.
Everyone's a critic. Or everyone is litter.

Seth Crook

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Seth Crook would be pleased to hear them.