that morning, from our bench by the ranges,

we followed a single north sea wave

driving upriver, too far away to touch, 

 

too close to bear, and at the bar, because 

the shallows gather there, watched how it rose 

above itself, proud and triumphant, as i did once,

 

until the wind, that white blade carding

the winter from the firth, cut through,

feathering its crest to a brief astonished haze

 

then sent it withering back towards whatever 

it had always been, or where it came from.