with blinded passion
thrashing kelp upon the sand
praying to the moon

Text / Image: Peter Kerr / Peter Ferguson tide skurries to outrun invading swells of frothing atlantic waves

hush of a slow wave
edges forward, hesitates
nibbles at the day

shore to shore she glides
placing limpets on their scars
praying to the moon

Footsteps on wet sand
push up bivalve bubbles
to kiss salty toes

the sea is far out
and you have gone
beyond the slack of the tide

strange to me the sea
agitated cold beauty
out there, never home

waulked by sun and moon
stretched taught in tenterhooks
to lie across the bay

between sand blown dunes
harsh marram, netting the sun,
thoughts spin restlessly

under wet cold peat
centuries of life live and
wait to speak aloud

waves whisper, as if
they remember secret streams
mountain springs

well suited
the small snow of the lambs
can’t chill