We crunch through razor shells and squelch through
blackish silt – there is coal in the drenched sand –
to reach the artist’s cast iron avatars.
They are steadfast against anglers, vandals,
local Tories, jet skiers, the Coastguard,
and the RSPB – but not the wind
or the sea. Some are rusting deeply,
some barnacled already, some sinking
or rising – others missing on this
shifty shore. They have watched the North Sea.
Now, from here, they can see Snowdonia,
The Skerries, Queenstown, the New World –
and, some, when the tide is in, sea creatures
in their wilderness of oblivion.
Above, ships pass and the wind farm turns.