The beach is a strip of sun, arcing
through twenty-six degrees of heat;
I’ve forty-five degree slopes to clamber down,
the sheep scattering like cloud,
Ahead, Filey Brigg is a long red wedge
Reaching out into a grey North Sea,
while behind, the white cliffs of Bempton shimmer,
as if drifting into dream.
Late last night, the stars were naked
and unashamed, proud to be found again.
Time, eternally reborn, at every moment;
what is seen today will bypass the spheres.
A butterfly on a garden wall,
a blue brooch on red brick.
An atom of an ant, a planet-sized ocean.
Tomorrow, a slow train home.
The sea shall fold in on itself,
the map of ten square miles
will fit in my pocket.
But nothing will ever be gone.