Alone this time,
retracing steps we took in spring
along the raised river bank,
craters of crusted ice
where mosquito pools were sprayed,
across the golf course you scorned
for a pampered grown-ups’ playground
electric buggies spoiling
what remained of Mark Twain’s walk,
to the mud and sand shoreline
turning east
to the end and beginning of land
clattering through quill grass
past the hollow where
a basking naturist sprang up
covered himself with The Sun
modestly to let us pass
and reach the place we saw them first
fat potato wedges on a slant grill tray
which as we came closer
grew into seals
copper and pale and grey
untroubled and uncaring
in their belly-balanced calm
looking at us watching them
from our clay seat on the
facing shore’s steep bank
legs dangling over the tidal flow,
foolhardy in the delight
of our discovery.
There are no seals today
and in the scouring wind
I shiver to find our perch
has crashed into the sea.

© Trevor Breedon