A picture
Joe Hart
The gnarled wind-wetted wooden posts
Point blindly to the sea,
Stuck in sand around the rocks
In rugged, old complaisance.
The sea-gulls crown the inner air
With swoops of flight and noises.
Their double-crescents, grey and white
Swim just above the swells.
The reef of rocks in silhouette
Rears ragged from the sea.
The taste of salt is in the sand,
The old posts slant and lean.
And all is blue and all is grey.
The ocean's deadly rustle
Washes up against the rocks
And then goes back to sea.
In the sky the subtle clouds
Are like the puffs of breath
Against a hand when someone speaks.
The air is cool and warm.
