The Whale-watcher
And when at last the road
gives out, I’ll walk –
harsh grass, sea-maws,
lichen-crusted bedrock –
and hole up the cold
summer in some battered
caravan, quartering
the brittle waves
till my eyes evaporate
and I’m willing again
to deal myself in:
having watched them
breach, breathe, and dive
far out in the glare,
like stitches sewn in a rent
almost beyond repair.
