What do you call a beach without colour
that is only a beach at low tide abrupt
against the seawall, and wedged between
slipway and pier? Churches are nearby,
and there is worship about the harbour
which huddles nature in counterpoint:
boats and seals, wrasse and cormorants.
I conjecture Spinoza and God and nature,
and grow plaintive after I go back indoors –
a jackdaw picking among mussel shells
and pebbles, plastic offshoots and bits
with unnatural sheen, tracing the water’s
edge like the silhouette of an old overexposed
photograph, emphatically rejecting
(a) the notion that animals are there for humans
to use… (b) that an ethics of acknowledgement
still serves a hierarchy for as we see fit.
John Kinsella is an Australian poet. His collections include “Drowning in Wheat” and “Insomnia” (Picador)
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This article appears in the 28 Aug 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Trump in turmoil