This morning the waves are restless.
Underneath them things are living out their lives.
Pebbles are piled up at the sea-edge
as if trickled from a huge hand.
Each one has its own genealogy,
a parent rock, a place it has travelled from.
The fine rain is almost horizontal.
I breathe it in, dissolve it into my blood.
The sea is happiest as froth, stretching out
its fingers, skipping faster, making shapes.
When it bangs itself onto the shore
it feels a release
as if moving its shoulder-blades diagonally
one way and then the other.
by Fiona Robyn