Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

Covehithe, Suffolk

South wind today.  So the breakers

come at an angle, sweep

along the beach.  Each

finds its own reach up the foreshore,

the banked sand and shingle, perhaps

(when the tide is high enough)

as far the cliff.  The wind

whips the spume

into irregular clots, picks them up,

and strews them downwind.

The cliff

is of course ephemeral, built

not only on, but of,

sand.  All along the foreshore,

the remains of trees

that once grew on the hill above,

and bits of buildings, human artifacts.

Geological time

is foreshortened.  This is now, here,

real human time.