Scolt Head

Feeling poorly still but it was bright and sunny so I thought I’d go for a gentle cycle to Warham and down Cocklestrand Drove for a bit of a marsh wander with the curlews and picking some sea beet for supper. It wore me out completely so I struggled back again but after a hot drink I wanted to see the high tide at Overy so walked very slowly down the bank to East Head. There was a mystical salty haze over Scolt Head and a beautiful sunset. It was almost dark on my way back but the perfect time to hear the geese flying over and to watch the barn owl silently swooping across the reedbeds.

Moored Man: Making the Island

Why?
Because it welled up - a single keen wave
out of the flatcalm of his mind.

He squelched and splashed north.
He waded out
a mile and more
up to his thighs, his hips.

Why?
To see felicity.

On the hazy bar he began.
With both feet he scratched and scraped
like a wild sea-cat covering its faeces,
until his ankles were bloody and raw.

Then he kicked. He kicked.

Why?
So the Polar reach
would end in his ears.

The gravel flew and dropped,
it swarmed and swirled like chaff
in the murky water.
Longshore drift did the rest.
Pebbles and grit swam
and settled in new stations.
They rose above themselves
out of the water.

Schschschhh-huh!
Soft echoes in the cavern of his mouth.

Time and wind.

A shining cap of sand!
Sea-kale, tugging at its roots.
Sea-holly, growing beautiful
as it grows old.

Sss-sk! Sss-sk!
He strikes sounds on his sandpaper tongue.
Sss-sk! Tt! Tt!

The sun draws its blade
over his welling land.

Why?
Because it was not there.

He stares at his island
and knows he is beautiful.