TOLLESBURY

 

Hoovering low above the dyke, classic white underbelly. Ian appears, the garden is lovely. More enclosure hangs on signs. A round plastic camera eyes the marina. Ebb tide again. Egret comes in and out of the frame. White plume antenna in the wind. Lonely farms where cars sit idling but no one is about. No one is ever about. 

The dull thud of distant explosions the sound of sand and mortar.

Paths across the marsh tail off here and there. Flies furiously guard their peninsular. Yes there may be adders but no I have never seen one. Memorials. Sea and sky are interchangeable. A fifty year old wooden border fence is now more lichen than wood. It pays to have a shed in the basement car port. The old familiar rotting hulks have been replaced with new familiar rotting hulks. It doesn’t take long for the mud to stake its claim. Rusted metal shoots sprout from the cracked earth.

An old digger head hung low.

Where’s the sea dad? Over there out there near that giant tomb of split atoms and deep buried rods. Everything’s been carved up and gouged out. Only the birds were here before. That line of poplars and the freshly painted play-ground.

Bury yourself on the way out.