Here, at the Tide's Turning

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.
...