The roots of the oak tree
Reach down through the mud and shale,
Touching fragments of china cups,
Lying side-by-side with stones and shells,
All framed against the red sand.
Out in the river
The body of a dead tree
Holds King Cormorant.
I’m lost in overturning mud stained shells,
Snaked with worm tubes
I’m lost in overturning bits of china,
Searching for one last piece.
In searching I realise that
These fragmented shells
Are just as beautiful
As perfectly formed spirals.
Retracing my steps
The tide has claimed its victim.
Again: limbs and all.
|King Cormorant surveys the River Teign.|