Fianuis Comments

Well, friend, we're here again — 
sauntering the last half-mile to the land's frayed end
to find what's laid on for us, strewn across the turf — 
gull feathers, bleached shells,
a whole bull seal, bone-dry,
knackered from the rut
(we knock on his leathern head, but no one's home).

Change, change — that's what the terns scream
down at their seaward rocks;
fleet clouds and salt kiss — 
everything else is provisional,
us and all our works.
I guess that's why we like it here:
listen — a brief lull,
a rock pipit's seed-small notes.
...
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