SAND FLATS AT WEST KIRBY

At low water the sand flats stretch unbroken

down the Dee estuary’s English coast

to the reed beds of Parkgate and Burton Marsh;

stretch beyond the islands in the river’s mouth –

Hilbre, Middle Eye and Little Eye –

towards the wind turbines in Liverpool Bay;

then along the head of the Peninsula,

past Meols, Leasowe, Wallasey and New Brighton,

to join the mudflats of the Mersey.

 

At low water the sand flats are safe to cross

to the islands – and you might feel you could walk

to that wind farm on Burbo Bank, or walk

to Wales and reach Snowdonia’s ranges,

despite the channels you cannot see,

and the waves encroaching which you cannot hear,

let alone see, because of the constant sound

of endless, restless, distant waters.

 

Here are such large skies of shifting clouds,

long veils of rain, unbroken sunlight –

such immense firmaments. This is a place

of horizons and mirage, of disquiet,

and exhilaration, like a lost element,

a lost dimension, as if you might glimpse

heaven or angels, or whatever else

may be at the world’s edge.

 

 

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3 Comments
  • HARVEY LILLYWHITE
    December 15, 2023

    Love the names, only to be subsumed in the mystery of landsend, lifesend. How the lost elements tempt us on.

  • Clive Watkins
    December 15, 2023

    A most evocative poem, David, especially for a reader like myself who knows well the view you are describing; but in fact your poem should resonate with those who do not know it. The last few lines are particularly strong – a conclusion that does not conclude but, rather, opens up very beautifully. For me (and for Irene) the passage about the deceptiveness of the mud has a personal resonance. As you know, in January 1979 we nearly lost one of our children to the mud at Caldy Beach. (There is a short poem about this in my first book.)

  • Alex Cox
    December 16, 2023

    Fine poem about our unknown dramatic coast. I remember a TV cop show – Z Cars? – where the bad guys tried to escape on foot across those flats to Wales. It didn’t end well for them. And years later I learned that Olaf Stapleton – author of massive, imaginative, pointless future histories of mankind – lived in Meols. The world’s edge indeed!