by Dorothy Johnston

Glimpsed from the corner of my eye, a wave.
I miss the whole long pulse, the crest then break,
spray pushed back by the wind,
and that wind a push from the south-west,
blowing sand and small unfastened objects,
shells and sticks that will end up who knows where?
I miss the wave that starts way out to sea,
and folds and dips and elbows forward unwitnessed
save by dolphins, seals and sea birds.

Glimpsed from the corner of my eye a seal,
shining brown, curled on a rock.
It doesn’t move as I turn towards it.
I hope it’s resting and not hurt.
Young male seals turn up here every year,
tossed out of the breeding colony
to make way for the newborns.
I hope this one will make its way
to join others on the wooden structure built for them.
The seal moves, slides into the sea.
It leaps forward, seeking deeper water.
A green wave rises.
The sleek body almost disappears,
then crests a wave as the wave breaks,
a wave glimpsed from the corner of my eye,
that might not, but does, contain a seal.