Seamist (Poetry)

The autumn tide slow-turns its treasure over
underneath a blanket — hushing dawn
and hiding some conspiracy of creatures
muttering old legends ocean-born

As thick as sleep it steals along the shoreline
claims mile on mile below the chilly cliff
where no one sees the ancient ceremony
or counts the monsters looming in the mist

The foghorn sounds — or maybe it’s the Kraken
whose mournful voice booms lonely and remote
while huge and moving shadows haunt the moment
and tower over every myth afloat

A sudden gleam — pale sun reflects on water
uncovering such weather’s unsure hold
as morning breeze unpicks with salt-sharp vigour
raw edges until every scrap’s dissolved