A house and high-walled garden occupy
nearly all of the old Lifeboat Station’s yard.
All that remains of its shed and the ramp
down into the inlet are the stumps
of the wooden supports set in concrete blocks –
both wood and concrete are ragged, wrecked, sea-worn.
On what litte remains of the yard
are two benches in recycled plastic
with small, faux-brass plaques – practical
and altruistic memento mori.
Behind them is the garden wall, hidden now
completely by a dense bank of hebe,
that has grown from the garden over the wall.
In decline as farmland is subdued,
there is a small flock of starlings in the hebe,
grazing on the insects the plant attracts.
I remember the swirling clouds of
constellations across fields and hedgerows,
and in the natureless centres of cities.
The congregation in the hebe, which has
been chattering with exultation,
goes quiet for no apparent reason,
and then suddenly begins again –
like a multitude of whisperings.
Like all prospects the view from here is
ambivalent: gone, like the lifeboats,
are sea baths, hotel, fishing village –
somewhere once worthy of sepia postcards –
replaced by converted cottages,
and new build all the way to the coastal road
and above along the low line of hills –
ex-pats and holiday lets. In the inlet
below, a boy on a paddle board signals
to imagined comrades. Eastwards is the sea,
today merely murmuring, violet where clouds pass –
in the depths porpoise and dolphin dive.
By David Selzer