Cycling The Seawall

Suddenly, old Siwash
flumed and sprayed,
appears with dark wild hair,  
banging taut drums.

Struck in the maw
of grey rolling waves,
bubbled among urchins,
among starfish,
sulphured, raw and splayed.

Among ships, 
swung slow and purple in the wind, 
sharp pricks of light
gliding over eerie Orca, 
westward like a sigh

to some sweet Geisha,
hiding in her folded night  
beyond this sleepy sky.