The Missing Man
I saw them near the Dunlin run
approaching the cusp of the tide
appearing to listen more than look
when the air breathed
draughts of gutweed and kelp
and the sky was barely indigo.
They seemed to be caught
between decision and regret
at the samphire line
in the days before the last groyne
surrendered to the sand.
Strandliners
Not thinking to become part of the land
Or knowing what we might expect to hear
We came to test the memory of sand.
Everyday we traced the leavings on the strand
From High Dune to Lobster-man’s Pier
Not thinking to become part of the land.
They told us stories we strained to understand
And shared their suspicion, hope and fear.
When we came to test the memory of sand.
They watched at dawn and dusk as we scanned
The banks and dunes throughout that year
Not thinking to become part of the land.
We left with the tide on the ebb as planned
And many came to watch but none came near.
We had tested the memory of sand.
Now, when the sun rests burning on the island
Their storytellers say that we will reappear,
We who came to test the memory of sand
Not thinking to become part of the land.