That Man Again

The driest May, 
emptiest May beaches.
Peewits twirl. Snipe winnow.
      Towers of Knotted Wrack
      climb with the rising tide.

Common seals lounge
on low offshore skerries,
waiting for the taxi of higher water,
     when, like plump bishops,
     they may deign to dine.

Clear and well lit downwards:
so the razor shells are exposed,
(ideal plant pot labels).
      I'll stick some in my trunks.
      Dip forward, dive.

Seth Crook

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