Water shines off the rocks like milk.
The seals tip up their heads and tails
in yoga pose. A riot of white-topped wavelets run
and, inch by salted inch, the causeway falls
how many fathoms deep? The dryshod hours
are all behind us now, and we are stranded.
Near the horizon, many-masted trawlers go
about their fishy business. On the landward
side, the people bustle to and fro.
The sea has not deceived them. All we can do
is wait it out, here on the seaward side,
impatient for the turning of the tide.
Judi Sutherland
