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Two tankers sit at the split between

sky and water,

our ankles are knit by rockpool eddies

and arms wrap the other as linen,

we are one cloth, bound.


Rock fishermen arrive, its time,

they throw lines from precipitous edges,

their rods cut arches against smashed foam

travelling the jag of the escarpment

in rapid explosions of birth.


Then shimmering silver, sparks

tossed from a frightened fish desperate to live.

A trophy photo is taken and

the fish is thrown back in.


Neither of us can throw the other back in

our capes of scales dazzle still,

we are caught on the sharpest hook

of imagination, reeled in, pull free but jump

on the hook again.

The trap of survival.


There is no registry of rules

but a bond that recognises our total.


We're stars gazing at our galaxy,

a blaze of globulus spray splashed across

the netted blackness of

sky's own catch of silver.


Go to Susan Adams's profile to read more poems