Tide-Turn.
Twice daily the lavender sea
flattens and makes up its mind to aim
fresh currents at underneath
dark-cobbled greyness
of boat-bobbing harbour and fill anchored
bottoms with foamy increase.
To slide greasy fingers between
barnacled stones as tidal force weaves
turn-coat creep of fresh waves
around furry carpet weed,
lush with ardent pulse wet kelp raises
green arms to hourly push.
Walking dry shores I frequently catch
myself asking why
the come-and-go ocean has no rest
but indifferent tides
just turn and provide me no answer.