Wednesday, 21 October 2009


at low tide

there is a wide sandbank

in the river.

a flat island

where gulls peck for lugworms

and the oystercatcher's shrill call

skims the water.

on summer days

you can canoe to this island

and on the hard wave-slapped sand, stay

until the rising, turning tide

washes you away.

there in the night

when land splits the surface

it cracks a moving, shining mirror,

breaking the moon's quivering face

into light stippled and

silver rippled, lace

like sand puddles.

lost and reclaimed, midnight to noon.

this lonely seagiven land,

this land in the call of the moon.

c. Marc Woodward

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