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