Low Tide

The rocks revealed by the receding sea,
Are skipped, stepped and sung,
By gull and jackdaw, pigeon and piper,
Each eager in its way, to explore and exploit,
The seas' treasured offerings to to the shore.

Rippling, retreating, hissing and kissing,
Each stone a solemn goodbye,
With a promise more dependable than any
Lover's troth, to return and Saturn swallow them,
Presently, by and by.

Stranded stacks of seaweed, slump,
Sagging, salt and smelly, are pecked, pried,
Pulled and perused by the birdy beaks.
Perhaps presenting some palatable morsel,
Some unfortunate crab or crustacean,

Clinging, concealed, in-conspicuous,
Awaiting the rising tides' racing return,
And the seas salt deep safety,
Else bury themselves in sand or mud,
Crack, crevice or clamshell, and sleep.