I

I carry the estuary -

a deadweight

of scuttled boats

among brackish puddles

and sky scudded mudflats,

far from tide and skyline.

Keel to sky I sway

on sea weary legs;

a breached hull

where the years leak

converging with salt flecked

emptiness, and no catch.

II

A neap tide pulls them

over rook scrub

boat graves and pale

clam beds steeped in mud

to board the long blue jetty.

Alive to the wind battering

the lifeboat station’s rig,

they quicken a resolute step

alone or hand in hand

to its flooded end.

III

Birds I cannot name

leave prints in the marsh,

small aimless arrows.