clam nestled in sand

will not yield, there is no

revolving beyond

 

sun sparks cloud edge

low, between mountain and sea

running silvered under early blue

seething, top to bottom

storied beyond our reading

 

slaves, liars, murders, cheats

underpin glass towers

glinting now, at anchor lights

winking back from their smug harbour

 

a float plane lifts, gulls glide and hunt

clams breathe in time with tide, we

do not know our own

history, pressed and seeping

much less their view, or that of kelp

hands cast up here, now there

anchored to their own purpose

 

these secrets life keeps

wrap all around us.