Shadows, lines, no lies,
her age acknowledged full well;
she is where she is.
What of the child within:
that spark of rebellion?
Snail in lockdown
surveys its altered kingdom
Where have those posh flowers gone?
Are the gardeners on strike?
Ever in motion,
faceless, they come and they go,
clutching their mobiles,
the port a grey entity
where dreams begin and dreams end.
At tidemill ruins
seagrass whooshes; ghosts whisper
by the salt-scragged tree.
Always a lone crow perched there,
his caws not quite of this world.