Feedback is still to come, as we did not have time to review my poem tonight at group. Instead, I continued working on the poem on my own, after having taken a different direction in my approach to the content earlier today.
A few excerpts of the latest draft follow.
Realized from shore, what do we dredge up to this horizon? A seascape we have not seen peers to us watchers of wild, whose eyes by turns troll, and bail, and then decant. The cold coast is newer to us, farther from land-home, than the smaller ocean edging elder world from younger.
Flattened flickers of ocean tongues lap the beach, where remnant foam re-gathers in the formless current and jutted surf-wash, rinsed by sprawling shadows, promontories kissing back. They never tire of the affair. Past that crusted boulder, its girth and rough ribs, we gaze and scan the weedy waves with craning necks. Do I mistake otter scuttle for the hollow of a larger peak? No mistake, yet no encore.
Porpoising, and then a raft, the insulated mother floats, one pup suckling; now hunts, scratches, stones fresh mollusks. Sharp teeth keep urchin counts checked, and kelp alive, frond forest tall, sound, swaying true for sea otter sunrise, more life.