Sunderland Point
Reluctant, too cold, too wet,
too dark for photographs,
too soon for thoughts
and yet
we go against the flow of traffic,
away from the early morning city,
towards the marshes,
full of unspoken expectation.
And here it is.
A silent eerie place, not night, not day,
neither river nor bank, neither sea nor land,
dead creatures humped at the water’s edge.
A bird utters a rising call.
The day, trapped beyond the horizon,
a thin yellow line beneath low cloud,
is released.
Then comes the car, headlights sweeping the wetlands
back and forth, breaking the spell.
The channel gleams silver, a flock wheels out over the water,
dead creatures become painted boats.
A line of streetlamps goes out,
a line of pylons appears,
a woman gets out of the car to walk the dog.
The day takes shape.
