The potatoes come out of the earth bright
as if waxed, shucking their compost,
and bob against the palm of my hand
like the blunt muzzles of seals swimming.
Slippy and pale in the washing-up bowl
they bask, playful, grown plump
in banks of seaweed on white sand,
seaweed hauled from brown circles
set in transparent waters off Easdale
all through the sun-fanned West Highland midnights
when the little potatoes are seeding there
to make necklaces under the mulch,
torques and amulets in their burial place.
The seals quiver, backstroking
for pure joy of it, down to the tidal
slim mouth of the loch,
they draw their lips back, their blunt whiskers
tingle at the inspout of salt water
then broaching the current they roll
off between islands and circles of oarweed.
At noon the sea-farmer
turns back his blanket of weed
and picks up potatoes like eggs
from their fly-swarming nest,
At noon the seals nose up the rocks
to pile there, sun-dazed,
back against belly, island on island.
and sleep, shivering like dogs
against the tug of the stream
flowing on south past Campbelltown.
The man’s hands rummage about still
to find what is full-grown there.
Masts on the opposite shore ring faintly
disturbing themselves, and make him look up.
Hands down and still moving
he works on, his fingers at play blinded,
his gaze roving the ripe sea-loch.