Burnet rose, sea spurrey
and thrift mirrored pink in the moon –
a solstice gathering of sandpipers; time
passing through the machar without me
and hours scored, acknowledged sure
by a pine cone cuckoo – back shore tight
until lark rise for the dawn shift.
The sea is liquid velvet. The horizon
distant, confident in its purpose
to stitch sky to our awe struck eyes.
Walk with me on the path of sorts.
Walk with me through breakfast dishes
of broken shells, and scattered bones.
They care little for our adventures.
Ahead of us the football pitch, Embo
and a collage of coffee mornings,
bargains and the juice of a village
solid in the whitewash and mortar
binding the good folk to its existence.
The burial mound of grass clippings
hunkers down, reverent in its duty
holding memories of past glories
and the goal that was never offside.
I place a foot on its edge, to connect
with the voices and the whistle blast
which ignited the larks into a burst
of song, ignoring the final score – forgotten.
By then, I’m at the Shop – waiting,
on a coffee, with a Northern Times
and a gale forecast across the bay
but with a good chance of a dram
to sooth its edge – in this landscape
where ninety minutes is never enough.