Fianuis

Well, friend, we’re here again — sauntering the last half-mile to the land’s frayed end to find what’s laid on for us, strewn across the turf — gull feathers, bleached shells, a whole bull seal, bone-dry, knackered from the rut (we knock on his leathern head, but no one’s home). Change, change — that’s what the terns scream down at their seaward rocks; fleet clouds and salt kiss — everything else is provisional, us and all our works. I guess that’s why we like it here: listen — a brief lull, a rock pipit’s seed-small notes.