Storm-Tide At Robin Hood's Bay
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the crag huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
and more will come back,
as if ancient voices
returned to us from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone under
a gulping spell of myself.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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