The tide has not yet swept the littered shingle,
Green and red buoys mark the channel,
Pitch in scuds of rain. Violet fells
Flow west across the quicksand bay;
Cranes of Barrow perch on the white sea,
Peer at the underglow, pick at the light.
This scene for you my father,
Harbours no past. Signs drift from meaning;
All is grey matter. Images impinge,
Do not sink in. The present and the recent,
Even now the distant past recede;
The rusting dredger calls it a day.
Fresh mud clogs the channels,
The lighthouse blinks an opaque eye.
You turn and stare; the stick taps;
Your brittle body heads back to inertia.
At dawn I wake to see the ghosts
That settle in my house.
Perched on black rafters, they crane;
Gather like rooks; loiter with patient beaks;
They say: Take care,
Empty your eyes and ears
Before our white beaks tear.
©Terry Hodgson2020
Comments