Along this grey margin waders keep their lookout,
thread a placid tide. Sometime familiar species:
seen at binocular distance we find the joy
of recognition. Come closer now. A dark shape,
under the gingerbread cliff, lies wrecked in seaweed.
Emaciated. Turn the body face up with your foot.
Look on those glazed eyes, dried and dull. Feathered omen,
razorbill no more. Whether sandeel – trawled out – or
toxic algal bloom to blame, no state to end in.
vi. 2022
