The incoming tide brings shoals of mackerel fry.
Herring gulls, perhaps a hundred, more,
young among them in their mottled plumage,
are yelling at the water’s edge, feeding
in frenzy as the small waves scatter.
Far out on the low, narrow, wooden jetty
my small family leans over to marvel
at the fishes before landfall. At my back
is the white crescent of hotels, the town,
the estuary, the mountains, sun setting.
They cross the beach, granddaughter running ahead,
towards me, as the frenetic birds
yell and flap. Along the horizon,
the forest of white wind turbines slowly
disappears, becomes a blurred prism of green,
ivory, red – like an attenuated,
distant, gaudy city.