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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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