Seals at High Island

　　by Richard Murphy

　　 The calamity of seals begins with jaws.

　　 Born in caverns that reverberate

　　 With endless malice of the sea's tongue

　　 Clacking on shingle， they learn to bark back

　　 In fear and sadness and celebration.

　　 The ocean's mouth opens forty feet wide

　　 And closes on a morsel of their rock.

　　 Swayed by the thrust and backfall of the tide，

　　 A dappled grey bull and a brindled cow

　　 Copulate in the green water of a cove.

　　 I watch from a cliff-top， trying not to move.

　　 Sometimes they sink and merge into black shoals；

　　 Then rise for air， his muzzle on her neck，

　　 Their winged feet intertwined as a fishtail.

　　 She opens her fierce mouth like a scarlet flower

　　 Full of white seeds； she holds it open long

　　 At the sunburst in the music of their loving；

　　 And cries a little. But I must remember

　　 How far their feelings are from mine marooned.

　　 If there are tears at this holy ceremony

　　 Theirs are caused by brine and mine by breeze.

　　 When the great bull withdraws his rod， it glows

　　 Like a carnelian candle set in jade.

　　 The cow ripples ashore to feed her calf；

　　 While an old rival， eyeing the deed with hate，

　　 Swims to attack the tired triumphant god.

　　 They rear their heads above the boiling surf，

　　 Their terrible jaws open， jetting blood.

　　 At nightfall they haul out， and mourn the drowned，

　　 Playing to the sea sadly their last quartet，

　　 An improvised requiem that ravishes

　　 Reason， while ripping scale up like a net：

　　 Brings pity trembling down the rocky spine

　　 Of headlands， till the bitter ocean's tongue

　　 Swells in their cove， and smothers their sweet song.

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