There are no geese at Coastguards

There are no geese at Coastguards

It's not unheard of for the sea to abandon
everything by morning.
I go when the tide is low
have always wanted to see the full shape of land
undressed as an island.

While taking a loop,
only accessible when she's out there -
and I'm back in,
we become
somewhat restful.

I spot a barrel,
petrol blue,
larger than a jutting stone,
half full and languishing on one side -
goose barnacles attached to his ribs,
screaming for life, small heads
seeking, rising, retracting,
seeking, rising, retracting.
Turn back,
chase a man with two dogs and an orange coat.
"Help me lift this please," I point off ahead,
fired red swinging in the breeze.
"There's barnacles,
got forced up on high tide."
And he follows patiently, smiles,
tells me facts about Portugal,
men and their climbing hats,
how many lose their lives for a delicacy.
He speaks to me,
it slows me down.

We take the weight of the barrel
hand on hand,
listening to each other for resting,
between us - plastic,
all the way to ocean,
seagulls sing to shying swell.
I picture sketches of us,
created behind small cottage windows
and those little faces,
all those small, yearning creatures,
who never had the benefit of being considered -
and the likelihood our action
made no difference to their fate.

Post script:

I sit a while,
until a man with a voice as loud as an ocean,
drags the barrel from the edge,
he says, and he's probably right,
"The flotsam is more of an issue than the barnacles,
let them die," and as he drags it I fold back,
curl into a high tide nook,
watch the wind,
have an ignorant cry.