Wiseman’s Bridge
The rocks have worn to a sauna of bodies
draped irreverently across the shore.
There is no thought, amongst these grey masses,
for sleekness. The beauty is in bulges and creases.
Sun drags over bellies, hot breasts
tummyholes crammed with small stones
and bits of crab. They are idle. Exude heat.
Oblivious to the chopper grinding overhead.
They glow. In the grand scheme of things
they have seen mountains swell, crack, twist
erode. They know the wind will change.
They know they will clasp rigid, naked,
cold, as the sea rolls over their heads.