Turning down the steep lane to the strand,
I felt that tightening of the legs and saw
the hedgerows of convolvulus and woodbine
descend serpentine to the wide, empty bay…
…it might be a couple of bars of music,
the way the light falls, a voice in the street,
some words in a book, whatever it might be
it becomes as real, as substantial
as a taste, a smell, a sound, something
that must be made, words that must be written…
…lane and beach became one. The upper shore
of fine sand was strewn with dried spiral wrack –
the lower was ribbed as the tide receded.
Only partially exposed near the water’s
edge were the blackened spars of a long boat –
and the shape of a tale or a song.