From fairgrounds, now salt-rusty, I cast off.
Feel the spray on skin of my one-time realm,
go to find what it was I left behind.
Look! The island enlarges. Watch woods and cliffs
and quays recalled, appearing. Hear the halyard’s
slap on mast, the creak of a landing stage.
Pitch, roll, yaw – I ride an every-which-way deck.
If waves are high, hand-held ramps get roped
across the universal undertow.
I come to step in my own footprints. Talk
with the friend who can tell where a causeway
will emerge, fathom how the current runs.
In shallows, draught is key he says, so lift
your centreboard and mark the buoys. But note,
when soaked, a new hull’s timbers will swell tight.
He shows me all these rudiments, and claims
they shall remain – even though our moated castles
are engulfed, then crumble softly into sand.
Bank Holiday done, down-from-Londoners
make tracks, pack up their second homes. Stranded
Li-Los, wind breaks, jettisoned for salvage.
Beachcombers, we’ve outswum once gladsome youth.
In the calm between squalls kick off our leaden
shoes, and treading water, wash up with the tide.
xi. 2024
