Gill Horitz
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No reassurance
with the kind of rain that slumps
a downward dredge of scree
onto the beach and bars our way.
We went in the late evening
to look at the altered shore’s
bad-tempered chuck of stuff
from way back, before we came,
that beach we always long for,
summer rocks we swim to reach,
chalk notch we creep inside,
and sleep.
Another storm loosened the snout
and out fell some marine
mystical, touting for us
to stare at its old skull.
The body, lodged further back,
we want unearthed, so pledged,
a crowd of us new-style funders,
to get out the inner being of bones.
For our own boxed remains
and loose ash leavings,
time stands against us, with
only ourselves to dig us out.
Published in Modron Magazine