Like As The Waves

Lydia Harris

Sandquoy Pier

snorts like a seal,
headbutts the Dorianda’s bows,
nuzzles the place
pebbles turn into sand.

The Scollays levered her
out of mudstone and old red.

At mid-tide she’s decked
in algae and kelp,
still makes that arc.
Says no to straight lines,
is in love with her curve

which says yes.
Doesn’t flinch at the the knife
the south-westerly holds to her throat.

Her feet grip the bedrock.
Her nights taste of chilli and lime,
smell of her ooze.
She doesn’t give a toss
for the gale’s growl.

In response to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 60, “Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore”