March, wind, tide.

Like narrow bands of coldest steel,
these rivulets of estuary lie on their backs,
metallic in shine;
picked out by wading birds, top-heavy and
lilting
curves of beaks half an S shape,
eyes like glossy roe.
Tide times flap in birdwatchers' hands
ready to be ripped out to sea,
with dropped lens caps and half a biscuit wrapper.
The wind knocks the breath out of seafront runners,
chapped legs and
watered eyes that seek the horizon line,
watching the oystercatchers enjoy the low tide.
Cold rolls in, along with the drift,
where upwards burbles of life spring up
scattering the turns and making
seaweed swim to shore.