Tysties
(St Abbs Head)
Guano stains
run down-rock
almost to the
line
greened by
sea-surge.
Shell-Grip,
courtesy of barnacles,
roughens
landing pads.
Neighbours
sense snack-time,
whirr away,
arrowing waves,
fly through
their thicker element,
stab, engulf small
fish
whose ends know
no salvation.
A pointed egg
rolls on rock
ledge, falls or
is saved,
pouched and
warmed. The choice
is the wind’s,
or the gusting gull’s.
Meanwhile, taut
in his tree,
the lanced man
stiffens,
circlet of
barbs, fly-crust,
selects himself,
victim and victor.
She pictures
him,
tries to work
out
how it all
fits, as if it should.
Between ‘can’
and ‘must’
is a Poisson
distribution
with ‘may’ on
the curve’s
culmination. No
guarantees,
no certainties,
no knowns
but the ocean’s
vastness
and life’s
shortening odds
against the
blind beaks.
