Prawn Tide

by Mercedes Webb-Pullman

As the sun came up, frost
dusted dunes and tussocks
then disappeared. Behind the breakers
white vapour floated, veiling
the hills haunch-hunkered
by the water, some bush-clad,
some naked.

The moon set pink
last night; now red prawns flow
and writhe in lines along the tide mark
in a plague of plenty. Birds
wallow in the shallows, too glutted to fly
but for one seagull Narcissus-skimming
above his wet sand reflection,
mirrored wingtips touching
for eternity.

Bones of driftwood litter the beach,
jade waves pummel the shore,
tweak its fabric flat along the flanks,
twitch at wrinkles, finger ripples
like the witch at Gretel’s ribs.

The men set to mending nets -
no bait will catch a sated fish today