Saturday, December 17, 2016

Scalloping, a poem


The sea-grass seems almost black
at this depth. A cold hand gently
presses. I look up at blue distortions.

To my business. They are easy
to see if one knows how. There,
the sand settles, barely perceptible,

marking a passage. My gloved fingers
slip another scallop into the net
bag trailing at my waist.

Up for breath, all the way up,
not just through the snorkel.
Where is the boat? Momentary

disorientation. Used to that.
I prefer the shallows, I think,
wading the flats that seem

to extend forever into the warm
Gulf waters, green-straw, the gulls
wheeling and wheeling.

Down again, to depths of filtered
summer sun, to dark grass beds barely
acknowledging the sluggish current.

Nothing marks my passage, here,
a parting of water, a parting
of life, all flowing in behind.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

Ha, if one were to remove the line breaks this could be a passage from one of my Cully Beach novels.

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