Into the skin the pores of the sky

Night's head is bent towards the slow wash of the sea

Her feet moving over the gravel


The Channel bills the land

The tide turns a shingled hand over the

Blue chin and black stubble of the sand


The salt grass old thorny bushes

        and sudden crimson flowers

                                 of the dunes

Then damp open scrub


Houses built here

Dark peat and kindle backed up

Driftwood burning        acrid        spitting


In all our homes

The heavy animal sound of the ocean's rollers

                                          smothers us.


If I press with my fingers in the dark

They shall leave no mark.