On the beach,
Sideways and hull-down,
Trying hard in the Winter sun
To gleam and be alive,
A strange boat
Stranded in the storm,
Gradually tilts and gives up hope.
One thin line
Strains to the hidden anchor
Just off-shore.
The screw has gone,
Small splits appear,
Sprung boards allow the salt water
A first, tentative grip,
Bringing her to her knees
On the beach.

Foreign, she is,
From up the coast.
Compact, head-butting
And easily rolling
Over the unforgiving
North Sea's tricky underwater map.
Shifting sand,
Covering and uncovering
Rusting defences
Slowly eroding in the salt water.

Either the sea,
Intolerant of error,
Will break her
Or the salvage crew,
Wearily tramping the sand,
Will take her.
Slowly stripping her bare,
Her interior secrets
Exposed and vulnerable.

Next week, next month,
The beach will have returned
To wildness and to peace.
A place of detritus,
The bones of fish,
Dead gulls and trees
Along the littoral.

From "A Kind Of Heaven" by Richard Maslen (click to go back)

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