I’m the first thing here
since it snowed.
Superstitious of perfection,
I walk in the dunes and watch
the white beach unroll
beside me.
I go up Glas Hill
chewing a marram-stalk.
Clouds push over the sky,
where the moon, the sun and
the stars still gather.
Way below, two lifeboats leave the harbour
burbling side by side.
Far out, against the world’s
pale wallpaper,
I watch them part.
The samphire-flats
whisper with ice.
In Old Nat’s yellow caravan
the sill is stacked