SETH CROOK lives on Mull.  He is transitioning into a seal. His poems have most recently appeared in such places as The Rialto, Magma, Envoi, The Interpreter’s House, Causeway, Northwords Now, Antiphon. His photos have most recently appeared in the Nitrogen House.

Julian’s Bower
          (In Alkborough)

It isn’t sacred.
Only a small, flat maze
that overlooks
the confluence of three rivers.

Perhaps made by monks,
or Romans
or costumed
medieval village madman.

Or perhaps all three,
cutting it
again and again
to satisfy some perpetual urge – 

to see an answer
to at least one such question:
“In the middle, plainly,
is where things lead.”

Children simply run in,
laughing,
seeing no mystery,
wanting no explanation.

The Shell Inspector,
Fidden, Isle of Mull

Cowries, periwinkles,
stretched out in a tidy line:
a happy happenstance
of beach-slant, wave angles.

But here’s Zoe’s shadow,
(with its bobble hat proboscis):
time for her inspection
of This Spring’s Collection.

Which stays put on the shore?
Which gets stashed in her bag?
Pipe the Fair-Shell-Farewell.
Pipe the Sand-Land-Lament.

Sisyphus’s
Sentence

This beginning

only
takes you
back to

this beginning

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