In direction as well as magnitude, a minke whale surfaces
into mechanical notation and a wind rising. Body and breath
we fasten to the field of vision, receive the motion of the bay.
Lowered into the water it is easier to pick up a background
of shellfish and crustaceans. The salmon-farm feeding system
clack clack clacks into operation, fish thrash on the surface.
Emotions drone and crash into soundscape. A hand rests
its words unrecognizable: a hydrophone for the ocean.
Escaping the frame of scrapers and brushes, buckets and ropes
is enjoyment, is a window made of water. Are we there yet?
I am looking in the vector field of its desire. Cut the engine
and drift, the water is smooth even out past the burned-out
coast guard station. The first part brightening. In clear distance
ahead, an animal is lost to language. It is a New World. A head,
not my head, not your head, rotates, examines dull water or us,
fixing position through some serious piano, instant trees.
Angela Gardner’s most recent book of poetry, The Sorry Tale of the Mignonette (Shearsman), was shortlisted for Wales Book of the Year and was a UK National Poetry Day recommendation.