There and back on the train from home to home.
And each time, I sat in the same seat,
on the same side, with the great big blue
ocean view ... unless those seats were full,
in which case I peered over disapproving laps,
I pressed head to glass, watching, unblinking.
Seal searching
I’d heard stories of the magical sea dogs and
the way they would bathe in streams of sunlight
on ragged rocks in high tide and low.
But I’d never seen it.
Sometimes, as the train hurtled on, I thought I
caught glimpses, shadowy figures strewn out
across rock or sand.
But the longer I watched, the quicker that seals turned to
gulls and ducks and flying things, boring, same-old
flying things that dominated skies and rooftops always
flying things that invaded drive thrus
and stole packets of ketchup and curry.
Not the seals, with their whiskery faces and bright eyes,
rare canine mermaids that wriggled up to touch the sun.
I’ll know it when I see it, right?
And one day, rushing, rumbling off to Edinburgh,
I sat on the side of the ocean.
I peered up to the glass so close as to leave a little
cloud of breath where the sand met the water.
I searched, watching, unblinking,
and there he was.
All alone, back laid, eyes closed,
basking in the morning rays:
A seal.
The most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I had no time to fumble for camera or phone and
no real desire to either,
because this moment was not supposed to be shared
or caught or grasped at or immortalised,
it was just for me,
and I will never, ever forget it.
