Meeting

The glug and slop of undermining waves

at Sharkham Point - a sounding interface

where far-off fathoms surge to coastal shelves

and bloat St. Mary’s bay with tidal race.

The keening cries of gulls are razor blades

that edge and echo out to churning sea.

I know this in-between, where flesh and blood

and restless winds contend for supremacy.

The folded swallow perched on telegraph line

mythologizes summer - ruffled azure,

poppy-throated, skimmer of ancient Nile -

you visit me with voices; almost bizarre

to chirp in close-up. Inside my cage

I cut the starry winds before we disengage.