Cold fog comes seeking off the sea,
White entrails, frost-spoken,
And a slim-fingered wind, filching warmth,
These are the ocean gifts this day.
A wet beach, icy grit, salted driftwood,
The waves have counted here,
Counted every day and hour,
Whispered my life away whilst they,
With soft power, rocks devour.
Weed from the depths,
And a gull speaks memory,
High winged whiteness over dirt streets,
Majesty and distance, over me,
The waves and the gulls,
And the cold wind off the sea,
Lost in the fog – but I’m free.