This place speaks of other times, a voice from the unseen. Long before fishermen’s cottages turned into holiday homes. It is still the same river that flows to sea past scattered stones, the sound of shingle. The people change, the houses change. The bay sleeps where it always has, between sheets of silt and honey-coloured grass.
ancient chant an oystercatcher piping above the waves
What began as a guiding light for sailors is swallowed by shifting sands. The river readjusts her flow into the sea, the sailors readjust their navigations. Seaweed covers the remaining frame in vivid green around the barnacles, accepting all that changes.
glistening in the sun
a sense of peace