Estuary
a liminal waterscape endlessly dynamic
with the twice daily ebb and flow of the tide
where sometimes a lost soul will wash up
or a golden coin from five centuries past
a giant seed pod carried by the Gulf Stream
from five thousand miles away
the bones of a fish sucked white by an albatross
or thrashed by the brutal oceans swell
human detritus of sanitary wear
once flushed through some distant drain
tangled in plastic that surrounded well water
bottled in Delhi sold to an unsuspecting
ill prepared golden triangle tourist
tide so low that the other side may be walked to
if only you’re aware of bottomless mud sink
if not cursed to be the next being
nibbled by crabs, inhabited by barnacles
and gowned in kelp to wash up like a lost soul