There is still a line

There is still a line

Drawn deeply in the sand

A dirt-hard edge to the meeting

Of land and sea

Coal dust ingrained

From before the changing times

When hoppers

Carried dust and slurry

High out over the heads

Of beachcombers

To dump waste into the open sea

Grey-tossed waters scummed with death

Withered weeds scattered

The stink of them barely dispersed

The wind sadly turgid

In whispered lament

For the passing of summer

Detectorists not yet performing

Their weekend ritual

In search of ancient history

Buried and uncovered in continual rotation

The windswept coast

In gradual erosion

Exposing its underbelly to the elements

A spindle of wiry trees

Beech and spiny Hawthorn

Pitted against the cold north wind.

Sturdy though they may be

There is a slow decline

As forests dwindle

The folly of man

The changing nature of things

The passage of time

The death of all flesh

The intensity of its fall

The fragility of its hold on life

Broken hearts and fingernails

The capacity of this terrain

To resist and reshape

With or without us.