down bilsdean creek where fresh and salt water meet
the bladderwrack rehydrating incoming tide chases
tiny trout upstream  to the overhanging hazel branch
sanctuary of dappled dancing sunlight where they flit
back and forth under the ever watchful kingfisher
shimmering blue glints of nervous anticipation

by whelk denuded tidal pools, Freddy the refugee
with his rusty bike, tin can kettle and bent safety pin
waits patiently for his stream water to boil
a hip flask of vinegar and folded envelope of pepper
are produced with theatrical flourish from a tattered
baling twine belted overcoat and placed on the rock

from Fife the haunting groans of the fog horns echo
around the mist cloaked cliffs where Glasgow boys
once set up their easels and squeezed red ochre
onto pallettes of roof slate to sing praises to nature
the water boils in the smoke blackened tin can
the mussels open in surrender among the whelks
the tide inches forward grinding empty shells to sand