you bring white
and blue, green
and red, orange
and pink
lids and straws
containers, rope
coffee cups
action figures
that I dump
on the shore
before retreating.
I return
for them hours later,
emptying the shoreline
swallowing them whole
offerings you do not want.
Nor do I.
I don’t long to go back, not really
for I know that I will not find
the footprints of childhood
still residing there
but only a ghost of what
was once, a faint thread
leading me back
to somewhere that no longer exists
and cannot be any more
for the world has kept spinning
and I have kept moving
through this life and it no longer
waits for me in the shadowy
wings but has been wiped away
and all that is left
is the ripples, ghost
of a place and time and people
that once was
and no longer is.
here, the sand is soft underfoot, a far cry
from the pebbles of my childhood beaches,
where the shingle is stacked tall, a rocky bank to run down,
the stones hard, feet sinking,
wincing
squealing
from car to water, standing at the water’s edge, watching the waves
roll in and out.
here, the golden sand
stretches for miles, the water
blue and green, a world away from the grey, muddy water where once
we floated on our backs like starfish, the sun still warm at gone seven
and it felt like another place –
I am home now, here,
where I have crossed the bridge between two worlds
and where my wings are set free and the weight of the past has flown.
here, the sand is soft underfoot.
my feet sink down, rooting me here.
they grow
in you
like
black holes
swallowing
the universe
land meets sea meets river
narrows to a thin snake,
penned in by sandbanks and creeks,
wriggling to the side, becoming
a pinpoint, nothing
quay quay jetty quay
docks jetties quay quay
in the mouth
a dance.
Names strange
to the tongue:
Polkerris, Polglaze, Polpey
pond, lake or well
Tregaminion, Trezare, Tregear
settlement or homestead
Penhale, Penpol, Penleath
hill or headland
Washing, Blackbottle, Killyvarder,
the sailors warning.
The Saint’s Way
meets the Coast Path
wriggling
along the changing coastline
disappearing
over the crease
of the folded page.
Sit with me by the water’s edge
watch the world floating by
let the waves wash away
all those troubles and worries
talk to me about nothing much
just life and the colour
of the sky and sand
but please, just sit
with me, for a little while.
Trace the paths
with your fingertips
see where they disappear
into nothing, hedges
and secret places.
*
See where our world
begins and ends
stays within the hedgerows
that border this kingdom,
a land of make-believe.
*
See where the grass
dips, where the banks
roll away and the daffodils
bloom, where we lie
under the blossom tree.
*
See where we grow
like flowers blooming
in the wild, secret, protected
and rooted in the soil,
the fabric of this place.
Perhaps, your skeleton lies
at the bottom of the ocean
and I am just trying to find it,
following a road with no map
plummetting into the darkness
falling into something I can’t fathom
like divers who explore the depths
of the ocean, less familiar
than the surface of the moon.
Ships rest on the seabed,
hulls perfectly preserved
not wanting to be found.
Darkness does not encourage
life to thrive, a vacuum
like the one that you left
behind, the day that you went
somewhere I cannot follow,
as mysterious as the ocean depths.
After the snowdrops
have shown themselves
hope contained within
the petals
comes the gorse
with its yellow flowers
lining the hedgerows.
Then the daffodils,
bright yellow, spring
up in clusters by the side
of the road, lanes, woods, banks,
a vibrant burst of colour
welcome after the grey and the cold.
Then the primrose,
nestling under hedges
and bushes, pale yellow
dotting the landscape,
beckoning spring closer.
Sunshine melts the snow
blue skies, round white balls,
as big as barrels
the remains of snowmen
linger in green fields, lonely.
Snowdrops re-emerge from under
their temporary winter blanket
and it’s as if,
it was never there at all.
