The Lincolnshire Coast is just Flat and there is Nothing There
The tide is out, way out, it ran away to sea
And left upon the sand its salted legacy:
Old words in shallow pools, hear ‘heahtid’, ‘ebba’, ‘flod’,
All relic and un-spoke, time smoothed, buried in mud.
Net fragments, plastic this, sea coal and rusted that,
Unsharpened shards of glass, ancient trees turned black.
The slowest sinking wreck, a rack of wooden ribs,
Barnacled and burst, an undone manifest.
Some resting bob of seals, stone-like, all aligned,
Hunt-tired from the night flight over Doggerland.
Sanderlings and gulls bicker with the tide,
Dispute the liminal on the ever-moving line.
Snail, clam and razor shell, a bottle; no message,
A tale in aftermath, such busy emptiness.
You bring your bloated self, a supplicant to prayer,
Because you are so full and there is nothing here.