by Hana Wilde
We broke in, swung through the low gap, a shower of rust
You riding in my belly, small passenger
Looking for seals.
Grey, soft, still
All noises amplified.
Past the old shed settling,
A Marie Celeste of plastic,
Japanese knotweed growing through the rot.
At the tideline we found perfect shells
small scallops like fingernails, translucent, pink.
And in the confusion of rust and rope
By the shore, a dead thing;
All blubber and muck.
And the seals breathed lazily between
Sea and sky, soft slick of water.
I wondered what they made of us.
I wanted to tell them it wasn’t safe here
The plastic islands
And then a noise, an upwards rush;
A seal leaping.
From a distance it looked like joy