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by Blake Morrison


The tides go in and out
but the cliffs are stuck in reverse:
back across the fields they creep,
to the graves of Covehithe church.

From church to beach
was once a hike.
Today it's just a stroll.
Soon it'll be a stone's throw.

And that path we took
along the cliffs has itself been taken,
by winter storms.
The wheat's living on the edge.

What's to be done?
I blame the dead
in their grassy mounds,
the sailors and fishermen

longing to be back at sea
who since they can't get up
and stride down to the beach
entice the sea to come to them.
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