Wales.
The mountains don’t swoop down to the sea
here like kamikaze seagulls. They tumble and fall
splash against boulders in the raw wind, send
spray bouncing and spitting onto the beach.
Oyster catchers balance on rocks, wait patiently
for a change of tide, a shoal of fish. Mackerel
unaware of the dangling hooks, bite bait that beckons
their silver fins a flash of light squirming
on the end of a line. The sea, grey, even in summer,
frowns like an old man with white whiskers
sparkling pebbles with his tears. And all the time
the boats rock in his arms, and the sun wears
clouds for shades. I capture this impression,
pastel in haste the silver shine on ancient granite
and before the old man can change his mind
and swallow the sun.
Sally James
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