Southwold, by Yvonne Aburrow
Seafaring houses, confectionery boxes
of stairs and balustrades and shutters
dreaming of the moon over the sea.
Pebbles in drifts, myriad colours
jumbled by the sea,
buttons in her drawer of odds and ends.
The wind puts its shoulder
at your door, breaking
into a house of memories.
The rocks huddle against the shore,
seeking shelter from the tide -
the waves that gnaw the land.
Around the corner, stillness.
The mudflats and the ramshackle jetties
are weathered into harmony.
The saltmarsh is swollen with rain;
the black mud sucks at your feet.
A lapwing throws itself into the air.
The brambles are bare now,
brown flails hanging unkempt
into the stream.
We have journeyed together,
collecting pebbles and memories
for the winter.