The track snakes downwards through fir and fern,
Cutting through the damp mist towards the smell of salt and sea.
The cove lies under a platform staircase the colour of rotting eggs:
A desolation boxed by rocks and cloud and nervous trees.
The waves, retreating now, leave sand wet and cold and shivering in the wind.
Ahead of me, a bastion of grey sits upon the water
Where two currents meet and fight, but both will soon lose out against the land,
Leaving behind the useless armour of Pacific Blues, the drowning Sea Stars
The random wrecks of Bull Kelp and me in fog,
Uncertain and unsure.
Then, in the mingle and mêlée of the waves, the cloud’s centre breaks,
Giving way to sky and sun, and the wind seeing advantage, blows and helps the rout,
Meanwhile from out of blues and greens, the islands come,
And with them, transforming heat that changes moods.
We watch as Sea Anemones energise the tidal pools,
While above our heads, an eagle flies,
And clarity, uncompromising yet absolute, arrives at last.