WEST KIRBY, WIRRAL


I can see here the curvature and compass

of the world. From the embankment that

separates the enclosed, salt-water Marina –

crowded today with summer holiday

novice canoeists – from the Dee Estuary,

I can see, east, a hundred metres away,

The Promenade; south – beyond the dinghies

moored midstream, their halyards tinkling

in the steady breeze – the white cooling towers

and the cable-stayed bridge at Connah’s Quay;

west, Flintshire’s industrial shore rising

steeply into the green Clwydian Hills,

where a fire has begun in the gorse

and the bracken on Holywell Common;

north west, Hilbre, island of erstwhile

pilgrimage then commerce; north – beneath

the horizon where ships wait for high tide

to cross the Liverpool Bar – West Kirby’s beach,

stretching into a mile of sand flats that ends

where the distant waves break ashen and silent.

 

 

 

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  1. #1 by John Huddart - September 2nd, 2013 at 22:43

    This is a poem about stillness, about disengagement, about an absence. It is full of significance that is resolutely untaken. You recognise the signs in the landscape. Sense they vibrate over the horizon. There is a time for being silent. Of letting things be what they are.

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