Evening at Knott End

The tide has not yet swept the littered shingle,

Green and red buoys mark the channel,

Pitch in scuds of rain. Violet fells

Flow west across the quicksand bay;

Cranes of Barrow perch on the white sea,

Peer at the underglow, pick at the light.

This scene for you my father,

Harbours no past. Signs drift from meaning;

All is grey matter. Images impinge,

Do not sink in. The present and the recent,

Even now the distant past recede;

The rusting dredger calls it a day.

Fresh mud clogs the channels,

The lighthouse blinks an opaque eye.

You turn and stare; the stick taps;

Your brittle body heads back to inertia.

At dawn I wake to see the ghosts

That settle in my house.

Perched on black rafters, they crane;

Gather like rooks; loiter with patient beaks;

They say: Take care,

Empty your eyes and ears

Before our white beaks tear.

©Terry Hodgson2020