Richard Rintoul is in the final year of his combined honours degree in English with Creative Writing.

The ocean does not flinch

at the violence within it,

but sways unfazed

by all manner of

circling fins and

stinging things which

drift clear, pink, red,

trailing through the currents.

It harbours the

squirming sea worms

and the stink of tuna blood

and the half-moon bite

of the great white shark.

It tests them in waves,

tastes them, savours them

as a critic would swirl

a maritime wine

over teeth,

over tongue.