High Sea Low Shore
Bawling fog horns
shake scales from tiled rooftops.
Spume and brume
spray momentary mountains
over submerging sea walls
From the pub on the harbor front,
we hear the buffeted gulls cry
as they fly
on the sluice of passing squalls.
"Look out the window," you say
(the window is a hundred pieces
of sky caught in a fish-eye).
I shout into her whisper:
‘No boats will fish today,’
but we both know
that there are small boats out there;
they call out like stray cows,
kelpie leading them through gray teeth.
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