Litter of the Littoral
Sea Lace, a thick spaghetti of elongating line,
is floating by: with a base pebble (smooth pink granite)
still attached by the gang-glue of the tiny holdfasts:
a forest dragging its own home island out to sea.
Examining this passing pseudo-land, pausing in
my daily swim through the shallows, eventually
unmoving, staring in a bay naturalist's task,
with an upper torso and hands above the surface,
I'm a Gormley statue of King Poseidon. Until,
stopped too long, a tidying crab examines my toe.
Everyone's a critic. Or everyone is litter.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Seth Crook would be
pleased to hear them.