A dead puffin on the path
to the shore, steep.
It’s a dry kind of moment
in this unreal autumn, not knowing
whether to mourn or be curious
about the colours.
The shingle, a shell’s span
of time: the brittle crunch
beneath my feet. One tiny boat,
run aground on a driftwood trunk,
another further on,
a steamboat, its painted funnel
an exclamation in black, in red,
faint shout across the sound
to a safer haven.
Edinburgh, October 2020
(Following a walk to the beach at Eagle Rock)