The rusted ladder has long been taken,
Eaten by the corrosion of the spume,
And access to the beach is by an easy but steep slide
Of sticky clay washed smooth by sudden rain. The exit
Now a subtle trap to an unattainable path.
When our return was still existant we would haunt
The sullen bay and idly walk the sodden walls,
Listen to the spooky, single strain of oyster catcher, danger-beaked
In a dapper mourning dress, frightening us slightly
With the many reverberations of a single cry.
Uneducated, we would gaze at echoing cliffs and caves
To wonder at their shape and strata, our ignorance revealed,
While stream-dug gullies spilt their deep brown
Filthy water on the rocks. We would wander to the stains and
Skirt round the deep green algae engendered by the splash.
But access has long disappeared. Infatuated by the memory, I still wonder
If the concealed tunnel is still there, linking bay to undiscovered bay
Around a hidden corner, where early on a summer morning
The light, caught unexpansive by the confining sides, would burst
Unstoppable as some spectral ship erupting from the grave.
© Martin Porter 2002