I.
Prim ballerinas quickstep,
probe the surf’s margin:
each split-second flicking
white and black, edge to centre,
wing to tail, back and forth.
Every pulse of tide
sifted for sustenance.
II.
Squatting in the backwash,
desultory, I dig
while feet bury themselves.
Through the sieve of my hands
damp demerara spills;
grains of truth trickle down,
lost in the sweep of beach.
III.
A horseshoe carapace
and tail-spine packed
carefully in tissue paper:
eviscerated flotsam
of mass nocturnal mating.
My dried souvenir
saw danger only from above.
ii. 2001
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