Ebb-tide. Can't guess how things might fare
with those out of the hush and swash of it,
wherever they may be; but here,
on the saltmarsh below Winchelsea,
sea-lavender thrums, busy with wasps
and rumours of subliminal hoverflies.
I slosh along a gully, shoulder-high;
its verges lisp, slip into the sludge
about my boot-tops, disclosing whiskered
whelk-helms and the ill-assorted garbage
of quondam sanderlings engrossed
in quandaries of sodden feathers.
This flushing out also discovers
clusters of brazen doorkeys, splayed,
diced over once in a beach-bungalow
where lust declared itself a parlour-game;
discloses dinted bottle-caps, salt-festered
ringpulls re-appearing from their past
only to fidget into murkiness again --
or an oblivion of sorts, liable to random
exhumation from blind ignorance.
The tide is on the turn. I scramble out
into my world -- a place where anything
may be forgotten if you put your mind to it.