Shearwater

By Dave Goulder

Dark sickle against waves. Masked.

Stiff; a salt-swift cutting
the wet air and turning on sharp wing points

you show white.

Turning and turning alternating light

and dark

in the changing sea-shape

of your own grey water-world.


I caught you once – in the night

on Hirta Island;

gloved against your fish bone cutting bite,

your legs

too far back for land use,

for once you are vulnerable

to earth-bound plodders.

But you were not my prey:

I was curious.