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By Ivor Griffiths
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Silverdale
Lumps of shore smothered in sinewy grass with
rocks like couches of sphagnum moss,
curtained in draping wet weeds. The fresh ocean smell
caresses the Heron balancing, with Yogic concentration
its bill a spear, ready to kill. Sky above her
grey and heavy, blackening slowly the wind and air.
Spitting from the Irish Sea a blast of razor cold
saline swollen drops, making ears whistle and numb.
The dark cold fluid swell has small lapping waves
that slowly munch, nibble and absorb:
the earth, shells,beach grass and us.
Ivor Griffiths
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