Harbour Seals Poem by Caroline Misner

The factory chimney hisses and fizzles,
curling the edge of the sky, grey
as ash; the buoyant air is filled with mist,
spraying from the harbour where corroded
barges cluster in the rippling black surf.
The buoys are sentinels corralled by a breakwater
of old stone that has been rolled into position
like a stage set for a play.

The harbour seals converge on piers
and splintered docks where they jostle
one another for space; pelts glisten
like wet rubber; they cry
and hack like sickly old men,
their whiskers oiled by ocean
water, their eyes luminous
as black pearls excavated
from a privateer’s booty chest.

A cruiser cuts the surf, spewing foam
from its faded hull, bobbing
the buoys like rocking chairs where
the seals flop and play, marooned
like me upon these shoals, crawling
like the spindly crabs across the pocked
stone. They are black nebulas, and like me
they are far from home.