salt marsh

sea grass

radio ship

island of plastic scum 

distant egrets

overhead hovering

the oppressive weight of silence

all along the time worn gullies up the mud track 

farm machinery in use but no humans are visible 

just the thrum of a tractor and the semi audible shriek of some distant children

a few last swallows come in and out of view at Shingle Point, why, I wonder

have these birds not flown yet? 

distant scum

radio egrets

circling plane

sea hovering

oppressive ship

blown grass

rural outpost, humans are rare

up in the village a person I recognise steps out of the past, we make our way simultaneously by 

coincidence towards the village shop; our lives run parallel for a brief moment. We part on entry to the shop but are reunited in the check-out queue, she is buying a can of mushroom soup for one: me, sliced cheddar and some Jacobs crackers, I remember her from when I was a small boy. She doesn’t register who I am.