Seaweed

Still scared of them, are you — those clumps of dark
beneath summer's mirror? A pine-green fox tail
flicks past; stag-horns sway, meshed with bulb floats.
You move on, seeking a clear space in which to
play the dolphin, practise not breathing.
Easing the suspense, a hanky of sea lettuce
waves, your skin is stroked by Neptune's necklace —
then at your wrist, that blood-soaked ruffle.
The swish of a blunt scalpel, polystyrene's
slimy nudge, vipers in Gordian knots…
Bolsters of surf roll you in over wrinkled
jade sheets, a lighthouse beam breaks into
petals. In sun-coloured pools you lie —
luxuriant, many-fronded.