Jackie Wills

The sea boiled with mackerel
inches from the shore –

it was thundery, a glassy July evening,
gulls dived, boys ran shouting with rods.

The shoal had followed her
across a firing range,

through a fossil forest
and an arch broken by tides.

It came from another element,
a darker, granite coast, hard with snow,

ran her into a stone quarry,
an attic room tasting of almonds.

Boys cast lines sparkling with lures,
the beach twitched with blue-grey piles

that turned silver and still. A boat slowed
its engine. Everything was changed.