First come the jelly-fish:

mauve-fringed, luminous bowls

like lost internal organs,

pulsing and slow.

Then, in the green gloom,

swaying sideways and back

like half-forgotten ancestors:

columns of bladderwrack.

It's as though we're stalled in a taxi

in an ill-lit, odd

little town, at closing time,

when everyone's maudlin

and really, ought just to go

Home, you sorry inclining

pillars of wrack; lone,

vaguely uterine jelly-fish

whom I almost envy;

spun out, when our engines churn,

on some sudden new trajectory,

fuddled, but unperturbed.