There is a place,

There is a place,

Long called Lindisfarne

It is at times an Island

And at others,

When the tide is low

Linked to the mainland

By a golden causeway.

It has trapped many

Foolish travellers

St Cuthbert’s monks

Marked the way

With wooden stakes

Plunged deep into the sand

Standing high above the water

Six feet deep

Or more.

Many pilgrims have been lost

Escaping persecution

Tourists trapped in

Sunken cars

Whilst taking chances

A sense of permanent

Impermanence

A place of stubborn

Fragility.

Until with a blink

A shutter on a camera lens

The look was gone

With everything else

Nothing ever lost will last

All things are transient

The tide will rise

And then retreat

Each time it will feel

Similarly different

Isolation fleeting

Seems to last forever,

In its compression

There is a lifetime

To remember,

In the turning

Even as high tide

Is so soon forgot

There will ever be

Sweetly found

Moments of connection

To sink into.