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This poem is taken from PN Review 66, Volume 15 Number 4, March - April 1989.

Here, at the Tide's Turning Kevin Crossley-Holland

You close your eyes and see
                           the stillness of
the mullet-nibbled arteries, samphire
on the mudflats almost underwater,
and on the saltmarsh whiskers of couch-grass
twitching, waders roosting, sea-lavender
faded to ashes.

               In the dark or almost dark
shapes sit on the staithe muttering of plickplack,
and greenshanks, and zos beds;
                              a duck arrives
in a flap, late for a small pond party.

The small yard's creak and groan and lazy rap,
muffled water music.

                       One sky-streamer,
pale and half-frayed, still dreaming of colour.
...


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