Drake

1st September. Firestone Bay

The wind doesn't break my binding,
as I thought he might, weighed down
those pale pages, picklings of stones.

Set myself toward sea to recharge,
under wings of a cormorant beating, I worry
one'll peck my battery pack shoreside.

Someone plays a radio from an open window,
something live touches my foot,
I stamp down, instinctive, then regret it.

There's autumn in the salt, ought to've known,
she is swinging her hips in the sky,
everything has a pronoun, predominantly she.

Mount Edgcumbe has dry mouth like you on the booze
or a friend's humour after her brain op,
or my hands when you've been gone a few days.

I take photos, mementos, while a diver emerges,
his silence has motion, splash,
I don't ask what he's seen.

It's Nutini on the speaker,
no window just a man, his book, a cigarette
I contemplate asking for one.

In the meantime I wade, drawn in
by frigate, buoys, a lone, thriving island,
blot of trees, protected - one with the beast.