Cross the narrow railway track
where no trains run.
Walk the line of trodden grass
through gateways barred with shadow.
As the last light sinks
into ditches and hedge bottoms
follow the stream, gleaming like spilled ink,
thinning to a wet sheen as it trickles
through pebble beds and seaweed,
seeking a level.
Stand.Listen to the soft rush
as waves break
gently, like an old man breathing.
Lick the salt from your lips, feel
the sand ridged under your feet.
Somewhere a heron clatters its wings
and lifts into the grey dusk.