Think – an island interests the poem. Each grounded tally pegs the drift, snags a silkie from the liquid swell where grey beasts swim. What’s missed still calls from roke and fret. Sing-song of shorelines scores each edge where sea will pocket stones for the sea-bed, and nothing lies still. Consider – an island interests the poem. Each shape amended to a perfect cone caps the slick of what’s not known, but whispers below.
