Sunday, 3 January 2016

Ginst Point, New Year

We walk towards an estuary
Where three rivers merge,
And I stumble in the dune slack,
Mud on ripped jeans,
A sign of things to come.

Our movement spooks
A flock of plovers,
The tide drew out to shining sand,
As you ask if animals die of old age,
Only if the predators don't get them first.

In your photographs,
I'm a man time is stalking,
The years creep,
Like a punt gunner,
Carrying the blunderbuss,

That fells a clutch of geese,
Amongst the flotsam,
We collected together,
Someone I trust,
To pick up my broken pieces.


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