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by David Callin

This is the Wash it seems -
a last exhalation
of the dying land, or something
the sea's been working on
for ages: sketching it in,
rubbing it out,
redoing and redoing it,
never satisfied.

Look at you, all wrapped up,
hat and scarf and
gloves, and those wild eyes
made weak by medication
and hopes confounded so
so many times.
Never this thin before.
Going slowly, in this
flattest part of England,
going slowly downhill.

The birds rise
like a handful of rain
thrown upward,

and the Great Twitcher
in the sky misses
nothing. His fondness
for sparrows is well known.

(Appears by kind permission of the author.)


Norfolk Poems





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