The end of the pier. Caught between tides, held breath of slack water. Rib cage carcasses of skeleton boats, neither rising or falling, but sinking like everything else here. Ancient oyster shells scatter the shore, the ears of old men listening for the pull of the moon.
Turn of the tide.
Three Sisters, Glencoe.
Kincardine Bridge, Skinflats.
River. Bank. Low tide. Swollen stretch marked skinned bellies of mud, silvered mirrors reflecting the sky, river and land so it is difficult to know where each element begins and ends. Rows of teeth, rotten wooden pegs slurp the dish grey tea twice a day, slaking their eel worn gums, cursing the bladderwrack boils that grout the gaps. A curlew cries, new moon bird of sickle bill, slices a sliver of itself through the flat lands of slow passage.
Rain on the hill.
Rain on the hill. Stuffed duffels of cloud sail east along the estuary past the murmurings of bees.