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.