To The Estuary

An unpeopled shore. The river bares
the pale gold stretch that was a cricket pitch
last week. Under the pier, an inky pool
whose curved warmth I could lie in. At the mouth
I step on rock after rock to where
a channel of chased steel cuts to a crumbling ledge
the further shore. The riverbed is
a topography of crests and gulfs, a map
of vanished tides; the shore I look back at
has been turned by soldier crabs into
a garment of seed pearls. Pebbles brought from
the heart of the estuary are tinged with
the olive-emerald of its rocks whose
stacked mussels glint in this tideless hour.