Returning to the whispers of the tide,
Displacing sand and stones, I trundle down.
Silt scatters underfoot. The salty reeds
Thirst at my shins,
Scrape my bare legs. The air is vaster here,
I cannot say: it’s wider than a gasp,
Fresher than sky. At the indigo hour,
The cool expanse
Returns me with the whispers of the tide:
Displaced like sand and silt beneath my shins,
Scattered among the salt and thirsting reeds,
I trundle down.
I have very fond memories of Sandwich Bay, in Kent, from my childhood right up to the present day. I hoped to invoke, through rhythm and sibilance, the motion of descending the bank of shells and stones, pebbles and sand, to reach the widening shore at low tide one evening.