The Holy Island of Lindisfarne

Weak, warning waves lap on the causeway,

Pulling me back to time and place and purpose.


Sounds from seals on the sands,

Regretful, rueful arias of past lives, eerily haunting.


Barn Owl on the wing, expect no sound here.

Lately, Little Egrets patrol the flats.


The smell of the sea

The strength of the wind

The weakness of promises


Gannets fly by in prehistoric formation

Never mindful of ship, or shore, or Saint.


A touch of rain on the face

A look of anger in the clouds

A jolt of anguish in the heart


Snow Bunting, no larger than resident sparrows,

Search for microscopic scraps on the shoreline.


Crunching boots on the shingle

Crashing breakers on the shore

Cringing memories of that moment and the day before


Another vehicle marooned by the tide

Another visitor to be taken aside

Another hopeful caught out by one who lied


The rhythm of walking

The subtlety of talking

The Roe Deer stalking


The warmth of the Cafe

The smell of the coffee

The taste of the crab


Copyright Ray Stearn 6th June 2019


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