Watched by the windmills and Gormley’s iron men,
The dutiful moon drags another sheet of memories
Across the golden membrane of sand where Victorian bricks
And jelly fish domes try and fail to make their escape.
They strain in the chrome light and beg the beach
To release them from their sandy jail,
As the head of a new born lamb would stretch its afterbirth
And breath ancient air into its virgin lungs.
My feet follow the last lifespan of flotsam and jetsam
Along the tideline of a thousand legacies.
A generational graveyard is crunched underfoot
And I wonder if these shores will be my benefactor.
The distant rig and cathedral skyline watch further
As the accompanying cliff of dunes and scatty grass
Frame this will and testament.
But my absence goes unnoticed.
My wave is weak and my beach is a marsh
Of mudflats and dead rowing boats.
Another lunar cycle leaves my tide of
Resentful shells and bitter driftwood.
I want to come home …