by Richard Murphy

    The calamity¹ of seals begins with jaws².

    Born in caverns³ that reverberate⁴

    With endless malice⁵ of the sea's tongue

    Clacking on shingle⁶， they learn to bark back

    In fear and sadness and celebration.

    The ocean's mouth opens forty feet wide

    And closes on a morsel⁷ of their rock.

    Swayed by the thrust and backfall of the tide，

    A dappled grey bull and a brindled⁸ cow

    Copulate in the green water of a cove⁹.

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

    Sometimes they sink and merge¹⁰ into black shoals；

    Then rise for air， his muzzle¹¹ on her neck，

    Their winged feet intertwined as a fishtail.

    She opens her fierce mouth like a scarlet¹² 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 marooned¹³.

    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 jade¹⁴.

    The cow ripples¹⁵ ashore¹⁶ to feed her calf¹⁷；

    While an old rival， eyeing the deed with hate，

    Swims to attack the tired triumphant¹⁸ 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 improvised¹⁹ requiem²⁰ that ravishes

    Reason， while ripping scale up like a net：

    Brings pity trembling down the rocky spine²¹

    Of headlands， till the bitter ocean's tongue

    Swells²² in their cove， and smothers²³ their sweet song.

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