Plymouth Sound / Blue Meadows
Render unto the sea what belongs to the sea: give her back her nurseries the sheltered grassy places where a seahorse might court where a pipefish might thread the translucent ribbon of its tail. Down into pewter broken water drop the hessian bags, the tenderly raised seedlings – bed them in, lay the ground for underwater prairies and pray - that the wild herds come to grasp at sea grass, graze on plankton – for shy digestive tubes to populate the silt – for the shimmy of dorsal fins in the tangled meadow, with their precarious games of hide and seek, the electric dappled fry; and at last for the stalked jellyfish to extend its starry crown – as in the old days we made the gods a little house or shrine & timidly but inevitably they came.
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