A mist that stands around the bay
Like a herd of white pigs above a silver trough.
The town has been enclosed by the sea
That turns fluently into the sky
Like the upward curve of a bubble.
When I look at it, I feel dizzy.
Feet are numb in clear, Scottish sea,
the tiny shoals of invisible fish
The light catches them,
x-raying their transparent bodies, Purple:
A squiggle of brain visible.
I encounter the jellyfish in the shallows.
He sits, a bulbous contact lens, or
The glass of a giant’s eye,
Blinking with the foam.
I call it a ‘him,’
trying to recall
animal, heart, lungs,
Blood into the gelatinous lump he has become.
Without his ethereal legs and stings
He doesn’t trail but merely scoots along the tideline,
‘Some jellyfish are eternal.
‘They don’t have a natural death,
They just continue.’
Part of me wants to stab it through the centre
With a pointy stick,
To see if it would burst like a pimple
Or a water balloon,
but why bother?
Whatever fills it is clear, a liquid of nothing,
And would rush away into the froth, poison into salt.
I am sickened a little,
and I wonder if it were possible that a jellyfish
Might know it were old.
They are creatures close to clockwork,
their brains and knotty capillaries
Raising questioning eyes to the skyline,
I debate whether or not I should bury the jellyfish.
A message might come from out of the sea.