Sankt Peter-Ording

06 Apr 2014

Altonym
Fen-brother space, vast and rinsed-clean
it is flat here, kindred, the gulls
chasing inward, the cold white hulls
of a thousand pleasure boats framed
as subtitle to the wide sky.
I wander, snapping each taut tie
that kept me tethered to England.

The voice of the sea is always
in the air; it becomes a sense,
a sentence, a new sort of tense,
a time frozen in seashell roar.
Would have done me no bloody good
to live away from the water -
we fen-folk dwell son and daughter
to the endless undertow blue.

Rhyming

Nature

4

0

Altonym

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