Watchet Poem

We are here between
not sea as such, or land as such,
a channel through an island
and looking backwards at both,
but the limpid green light
is like an ocean
and the wind here
comes straight off the sun.

It burns off every surface
and strips bare
layers of secret history,
like a ruined house 
where old letters and photographs
surface for a moment,
gone and come back,
before crumbling away.

And way over there
an ancient monument
of the future takes shape,
sometime fossilised ribs
of a pale dinosaur
nailed into the rock,
although this one comes
with its own extinction event.

We have been here forever,
and will cast out forever after.
While we examine our nails
the rock expands in waves
to be eaten by the sea,
and the wind means nothing
and is answerable 
to no-one.