Turning down the steep lane to the strand,

I felt that tightening of the legs and saw

the hedgerows of convolvulus and woodbine

descend serpentine to the wide, empty bay…

…it might be a couple of bars of music,

the way the light falls, a voice in the street,

some words in a book, whatever it might be

it becomes as real, as substantial

as a taste, a smell, a sound, something

that must be made, words that must be written…

…lane and beach became one. The upper shore

of fine sand was strewn with dried spiral wrack –

the lower was ribbed as the tide receded.

Only partially exposed near the water’s

edge were the blackened spars of a long boat –

and the shape of a tale or a song.