Tide of Change. Arisaig.

The tide is out.

Down on the shingle

And among the sea-bladder

Strewn rocks, the wily heron

Is fishing. He moves with stealth

And precision, his neck at once coiled

Like a grey snake, and then out-stretched

And taunt like a spear poised to strike.

The turnstones hold their own against

Marauding ‘hoodies’, arching their backs

And opening their wings to fend off

The aggressive opportunists.

Oystercatchers squabble among themselves,

Their ‘carrot’ beaks bright against

The rusty coloured sea bladder

And olive green algae.

Common terns screech over the placid lagoons,

Frantic in flight like white dragonflies, then

Plunging like arrows into the sea, then rising

Into the spray of their dive and moving on.

A buzzard drifts over the bay moving from one

Hunting ground to another on the south side.

It circles and mews loudly, then dips lower

As if just for menace, displacing a small

Flock of gulls – herring gulls and great black blacks –

Into the salty air like fragments of white foam

Tossed by a rolling wave.

The tide is turning now.

Silver sunlight dances on in-coming ripples.

The ripples turn to a persistent swell,

The sea bladder begins to lift from the rocks

And bounce on the surface of the on-coming tide

As a mass of heaving jelly. White foam

Clings to the receding shoreline

Like foamy milk around the lip of a coffee cup.

The gulls have taken to the water

And form a make-shift raft,

Which quickly splinters as the birds drift apart

Letting the current define their passage.

The birds become more vocal now

Especially the oystercatchers.

Other birds, once hidden, slowly appear

On the diminishing shoreline.

A pair of scoter take to the waves

With three half grown infants.

A busy cluster of ring plovers appear

As if rising from the clotted grey mud

To race about like clockwork mice.

Boats that were minutes ago resting

At their ease are no longer at a jaunty angle,

Tethered to a snake-like rope, but

Are now bobbing up and down

And riding the tide.

Out on the rocky islands, grey seals

Appear to be sleeping on the water,

As if their sanctuary is given back to the deep.

They remain impassive and undeterred,

Embracing the change as a daily event:

Yet on the distant horizon broken only

By the odd white or red sail and the passage of gannets,

There are dark clouds gathering in the world,

And I fear not all changes are as well rehearsed

As the theatre acting out in front me.